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RARY 

RSITYOr 
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presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIEGO 

by 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


MR.    JOHN  C.   ROSE 


donor 


> 


, 


THE 


SITY  LIBRARY 

.S'3 


A  MATTER    -    <*    - 

-  -•  OF  SENTIMENT 


A  NOVEL 


By  JOHN  STRANGE  WINTER 


"  Give  me  a  nook  and  a  book, 
And  let  the  proud  world  spin  round.1 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,      *    *    *    * 
*    *    *      PUBLISHERS,    NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1903, 
BY  A.  L.  BUET  COMPANY. 


A  MATTER    OF   SENTIMENT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

LUCK. 

"  WHAT  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ? "  said 
one. 

"  Invest  it,"  replied  the  other. 

"  Out  here  ?  " 

"  No,  at  home.  It  isn't  wanted  out  here.  I 
don't  want  to  increase  my  stake  in  this  country. 
I  shall  have  to  go  home  in  the  end,  and  my  old 
dad  writes  to  me  that  there  is  a  certain  farm  ad- 
joining our  place  that  he  has  coveted  ever  since 
I  was  a  little  chap  in  petticoats.  It's  for  sale — I 
don't  mean  that  there  is  going  to  be  an  auction, 
but  it  is  for  sale  to  any  private  bidder.  I  can  get 
it  for  a  bit  less  than  the  five  thousand  pounds 
that  you  and  I  have  each  got  to  play  with.  'Twill 
round  off  the  estate,  make  my  old  dad  deliriously 
happy  and  be  a  perfectly  safe  investment  for  the 
money.  As  soon  as  I  can  get  down  to  the  town 
I  shall  cable  to  the  dad  to  secure  it  within  certain 
limits.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yours  ?  " 

3 


4         A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Mine  ?  "  said  the  other  man,  "  mine  ?  "  He 
cast  his  eyes  over  the  glowing  Californian  land- 
scape, looked  slowly  round  over  the  familiar  scene, 
and  then,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  distant  hills,  he 
apparently  fell  into  deep  thought. 

The  younger  of  the  two  men  looked  at  him 
with  an  expression  of  curiosity.  They  had  been 
companions  and  partners  for  more  than  seven 
years  ;  from  the  time  that  Dick  Vincent  had  given 
up  life  in  the  Service  for  the  sake  of  wintering  in 
California.  They  had  met  by  chance,  the  young 
fellow  of  three-and-twenty,  the  older  one  of  some 
five  or  six  and  forty  years  of  age.  So  far  as 
worldly  possessions  went  they  were  at  that  mo- 
ment about  equal.  Dick's  father  had  put  a  sum 
of  five  hundred  pounds  into  an  American  bank 
for  his  son's  use  ;  Roger  Meredith  had  but  a  few 
pounds  short  of  that  sum,  as  the  result  of  a  ven- 
ture to  which  he  had  given  several  years  of  assid- 
uous toil. 

What  drew  the  one  to  the  other  neither  ever 
knew  ;  perhaps  the  fact  that  both  were  gentlemen 
by  birth,  and  that  Meredith  had  been  in  his 
youth  in  the  same  regiment  as  Vincent  had  just 
left.  Anyway,  after  their  first  meeting  in  a  small 
hotel  on  the  way  West,  they  had  seemed  instinc- 
tively to  chum  together,  and  after  a  day  or  two 
of  long  talks  and  mutual  inquiries  as  to  the  de- 
tails of  the  past  and  hopes  of  the  future,  Dick 


Luck.  5 

Vincent  suggested  that  they  should  put  their 
money  together  and  go  into  partnership. 

The  older  man  was  nothing  loth.  "  I  like  you, 
my  lad,"  he  said,  in  his  bluff  and  outspoken  way, 
"  and  I  am  willing  to  go  in  with  you  if  you  wish  it. 
We  are  different  ages,  and  we  are  different  tem- 
peraments. I  have  had  a  rough  and  tumble  ex- 
istence since  I  came  out  here.  I  was  unlucky  at 
home.  I  fancy  you  will  help  me  to  keep  square ; 
I  know  I  shall  keep  you  from  being  robbed. 
Here's  my  hand ;  I'm  willing,  and  something 
more  than  willing,  to  go  into  partnership  with  you." 

From  that  day  the  pair  had  been  but  little 
apart ;  from  that  day  not  one  single  cloud 
had  ever  come  between  them  which  in  any  way 
could  mar  the  simple  directness  of  their  friend- 
ship. Dick,  who  had  great  respect  for  Meredith's 
opinion  in  all  matters  of  business,  never  failed 
from  first  to  last  to  give  full  value  for  his  experi- 
ence and  maturer  judgment ;  Meredith,  on  the 
other  hand,  never  forgot  that  whatever  Dick 
lacked  in  experience  and  judgment  he  gained  in 
the  consciousness  of  a  clean  and  wholesome  life. 

As  Meredith  had  said  in  the  beginning,  the 
partnership  was  calculated  to  keep  him  straight — 
he  should  have  added  "  if  anything  could  " — but 
there  had  been  times  when  he  had  disappeared 
from  the  ranche  on  some  flimsy  pretext,  and  Dick 
Vincent  had  scoured  the  country  in  search  of 


6         A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

him,  generally  finding  him  in  the  most  unlikely 
spot,  in  a  state  bordering  on  delirium  tremens. 
For  that  was  Roger  Meredith's  let-down — drink. 
Not  the  steady,  soaking  drinking  which  drags  its 
victim  into  his  grave  and  out  of  the  road,  but 
wild  bursts  of  furious  excess  which  would  have 
wrecked  the  constitution  of  a  less  magnificent 
physique  years  before,  and  which  would  probably 
have  brought  Roger  Meredith's  turbulent  life  to 
a  close  long  ago  had  it  not  been  for  his  marvel- 
ous power  of  holding  off  for  months  at  a  time. 

"  Why,"  Dick  said  to  him  over  and  over 
again,  "  can't  you  be  strong-minded  enough  to 
keep  off  it  altogether  ?  You  can  go  for  six  or 
seven  months  at  a  stretch  and  never  let  a  drop  of 
liquor  pass  your  lips.  Then  you  break  out.  And 
look  at  you  now — a  wreck  ! — your  nerves 
smashed,  can't  sleep,  can't  eat,  can't  do  anything. 
You  are  a  strong  man,  you  are  a  gentleman,  you 
have  a  strong  will ;  why  don't  you  swear  off  it 
altogether  ?  " 

And  always  the  reply  was  the  same.  "  Yes ; 
last  time,  my  boy,  last  time.  Never  again  as  long 
as  I  live.  This  has  taught  me  a  lesson ;  seven- 
teen days  without  a  wink  of  sleep.  Gad !  it's 
enough  to  break  down  the  strongest  man  that  ever 
God  put  the  breath  of  life  into  ! " 

"  But  is  it  really  a  swear-off?  "  Dick  said  to 
him  on  one  occasion. 


Luck.  7 

"  Yes,  old  fellow  ;  really  a  swear-off  this  time, 
damn  me  if  it  ain't !  " 

"  It  will  damn  you  if  you  don't,"  said  Dick. 

"  I  know  it — I  know  it — I  know  it,  old  fellow. 
You  can't  tell  me  anything  I  don't  know.  I 
lie  awake  at  night,  and  I  think  of  the  past,  and  I 
think  of  the  present,  and  I  think  of  the  future  ; 
and  it's  all  black  and  dark.  It's  as  if  a  devil  had 
got  hold  of  me.  I  never  drink  for  pleasure — I 
don't  take  the  least  pleasure  in  it ;  but  I  go  down 
on  business,  and  I  meet  some  pal  that  I  have 
known  years  ago.  It  looks  so  churlish  to  refuse 
a  drink  as  a  sign  of  good  fellowship,  and  when 
I've  taken  one  I  forget  and  take  two,  and  when 
I've  taken  two  I  want  three,  and  when  I've  had 
three,  I  must  have  a  fourth,  and  when  I've  had 
four — I  don't  know  what  happens ;  then,  I  sup- 
pose I  go  on.  I  don't  sleep  that  night,  and  the 
next  day  I  go  on  again,  and  again,  and  you  come 
and  find  me.  It's  always  the  same,  but  it  isn't 
pleasure.  However,  I've  got  off  it  this  time,  and 
it  shall  be  the  last,  I  promise  you  ;  I  give  you 
my  sacred  word  of  honor.  And  you  must  help 
me,  Dick.  You  are  a  good  lad — perhaps  you 
don't  understand  the  temptation — but  you  can 
help  me  if  you  will.  Don't  let  me  go  down  to 
the  town  ;  don't  let  me  out  of  your  sight.  If  I 
begin  to  wander,  come  after  me." 

"  I  always  do,"  said  Dick. 


A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  You  are  a  good  lad  ;  it  will 
come  home  to  you  one  of  these  days." 

"  Besides,"  Dick  went  on,  "  if  you  have  a  mind 
to  wander,  how  am  I  going  to  stop  you  ?  You 
stand  five  inches  taller  than  I  do  ;  you  are  like  a 
Hercules  compared  to  me ;  I  have  got  no  more 
than  a  small  influence  over  you,  Roger,  old  fel- 
low, and  when  you  are  determined  to  go  to  the 
bad  it's  no  use  preaching  to  you.  If  I  were  you 
and  you  me  I  could  take  you  by  the  throat  and 
say,  cYou  shan't  stir  a  step  !'  But  what  chance 
should  I  have  against  you  ?  Why,  you  would 
just  get  your  finger  and  thumb  on  my  windpipe, 
and  it  would  be  all  U  P  with  me  ! " 

From  his  long  arm-chair  Roger  Meredith 
laughed.  Compared  with  the  mighty  volume  of 
sound  which  usually  constituted  a  laugh  from  him 
it  was  no  more  than  a  feeble  and  cracked  cachin- 
nation. 

"  It's  the  last  time,  my  boy.  I've  sworn  off 
for  good  and  all.  'Pon  my  word  and  honor,  as 
I  was  once  a  gentleman." 

a  Don't  talk  rot !  "  said  Dick.  "  You  are  a 
gentleman  still ;  you  will  always  be  a  gentleman. 
Kings  and  princes  have  been  befooled  with  the 
demon  of  drink  before  now." 

"  Yes,  I  know  they  have.  Don't  make  any 
excuse  for  me  ;  there  isn't  any  excuse  for  me. 
It  makes  me  sick  when  I  think  of  all  I've  chucked 


Luck.  9 

away  in  the  past,  just  because  a  devil  I  put  into 
my  mouth  steals  away  my  brains  and  my  nerve, 
and  makes  a  besotted  beast  of  me.  Don't  talk 
about  it's  being  rot ;  1  tell  you  drink's  the  hell 
upon  earth.  When  we  get  to  a  hell  afterwards, 
it  will  be  a  hell  where  we  shall  drink  and  drink 
and  drink,  and  there  will  be  no  sleep ;  there  will 
be  nothing  but  drink — no  food.  Ugh  !  Ugh  ! 
Ugh  !  Keep  me  from  it,  Dick.  We  have  been 
pals  for  seven  years  now;  keep  me  from  it  if  you 
have  to  tie  me  down  to  a  chair." 

"  All  right,  old  chap  ;  next  time  I  see  you  get- 
ting restless  I'll  chain  a  log  to  your  leg,  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind.  But  you  might  give  me  a 
hint.  You  see,  you  always  go  off  with  such  a 
deuced  amount  of  secrecy ;  and  you  are  so  wily 
that  I  never  know  when  the  fit's  coming  on.  If 
you  would  only  give  me  a  hint  that  you  are  be- 
ginning to  feel  like  breaking  out  I  could  be  up- 
sides with  you." 

"I  never  feel  it,"  Meredith  cried;  "it  comes 
on  me  all  of  a  sudden.  I  go  down  town  on  busi- 
ness ;  I  meet  some  fellow  I  know  ;  naturally  he 
says,  '  Come  and  have  a  drink,  old  chap  ! '  I 
can't  say  £  No  ' — men  out  here  think  you  such 
an  ass — and  then  I  take  a  glass,  swear  to  myself 
I  won't  take  a  second,  and — somehow,  I  always 
forget.  Then  the  mischief's  done." 

"  Old  fellow,"  said  Dick,  "  I  shouldn't  like  to 


10       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

propose  this  if  you  hadn't  broached  the  subject 
to  me  yourself,  but  don't  trust  yourself  down  in 
the  town  without  me.  When  there's  business  to 
be  done,  let's  go  together  and  do  it." 

"  Right  you  are,  Dick  !  I'll  not  go  to  town 
again  without  you.  I  can't  say  fairer  than  that. 
I  mean  it  when  I  say  I  want  to  get  out  of  this 
thraldom.  I  hate  to  feel  that  I  am  weak-minded 
and  can't  trust  even  myself.  I  won't  go  down 
the  town  again  without  you." 

Now  it  happened  that  going  down  the  town 
meant  a  road  journey,  I  might  more  correctly  say 
a  land  journey,  of  about  forty  miles.  It  was  not 
much  of  a  town  even  at  that ;  and  consisted  of  no 
more  than  a  few  wooden  huts  and  sheds,  and  a 
corrugated  iron  drinking  saloon.  Did  the  friends 
want  to  go  further  afield  and  take  a  trip  to  San 
Francisco,  or  in  the  direction  of  New  York,  they 
had  a  still  further  journey  of  forty  miles  before 
they  could  get  aboard  the  cars  of  the  Great  Pacific 
Railway. 

After  Roger  Meredith  had  given  the  promise 
that  he  would  not  go  down  into  the  town  without 
Dick,  things  had  gone  much  more  smoothly. 
For  several  months  he  had  not  shown  any  signs 
of  wishing  to  turn  his  back,  even  for  a  moment, 
on  the  ranche.  Then  they  went  several  times 
down  to  Freeman's  Rock  together,  and  once  took 
a  fortnight's  holiday  in  'Frisco  itself. 


Luck.  11 

After  that  came  a  great  run  of  luck.  Up  to 
that  time  they  had  done  well  enough,  but  not 
more  than  that.  Then,  one  happy  day,  they 
made  a  discovery  of  oil  upon  their  land — not  in 
such  quantities  as  made  them  or  was  likely  to 
make  them  millionaires,  but  on  the  evening  on 
which  my  story  opens  they  had  had  a  great  reckon- 
ing up,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  looking  in  one 
another's  faces  and  congratulating  each  other  upon 
a  balance  of  ten  thousand  in  solid  pounds  to  their 
credit,  over  and  above  their  profitable  estate. 

Dick  Vincent  had  already  given  his  friend  an 
idea  of  how  he  meant  to  invest  his  share  of  the 
luck.  "  And  now,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  "  what 
are  you  going  to  do  with  yours  ? " 

Roger  Meredith  did  not  reply  for  a  moment, 
and  Dick  sat  looking  at  him  in  interested  expec- 
tation. "  I  am  going  to  invest  mine,  too,"  he 
said  at  last. 

"  Here  ?  "  Dick  asked.     . 

"  No  ;  not  here.  Over  there  ! "  jerking  his 
thumb  in  the  direction  which  to  both  of  them 
meant  the  old  country.  "  I  have  been  thinking 
— I  have  been  thinking  a  lot  lately.  I  want  you 
to  do  something  for  me  when  you  go  home,  old 
fellow.  You  will  be  gone  three  months  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  I  have  earned  a  three  months' 
holiday,  haven't  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  have  earned  it ;  you  have  earned 


i*       A   Matter  of  Sentiment/ 

everything  that  you've  got.  But,  old  chap,  I 
wish  you  weren't  going  home." 

"  Why  don't  you  come  with  me  ?  It's  per- 
fectly safe  for  us  both  to  go  over  for  three  months  ; 
everything  is  in  fettle  for  the  autumn,  and  Jack 
Frogg  is  such  a  splendid  fellow  we  can  safely 
leave  it  all  to  him.  Come  home,  Roger,  old  fel- 
low ;  come  home  and  see  my  people,  who  have 
heard  such  a  lot  about  you.  They'll  give  you  a 
welcome,  no  fear  of  that !  " 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  that,"  said  Meredith. 
"  I'd  like  to  go  home  for  some  things  ;  I've  not 
set  foot  in  old  England  since  I  came  out  here  fif- 
teen years  ago." 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of  ?  " 

"  What  makes  you  think  I  am  afraid  at  all  ? " 

Dick  smiled.  "  I  know  you  pretty  well,  old 
chap." 

"  Yes,  and  you  are  right.  I  am  afraid  of  what 
I  might  find  when  I  got  there.  It  doesn't  do 
when  you've  cut  yourself  adrift  to  turn  up  again 
without  knowing  what  sort  of  a  smash  your  pres- 
sence  may  make." 

"  Old  fellow  ?  "  said  Dick. 

"  Yes.  I  never  told  you  that  I  had  a  wife  and 
child  in  the  old  country,  did  I  ? " 

"  Never  breathed  it ;  never  hinted  at  it." 

"  But  I  have — or  I  had.  I  might  go  home 
later  on,  when  you  come  back,  for  three  months. 


Luck.  '3 

I  don't  feel  like  going  this  time.  Later  on.  And 
besides  that  I  don't  feel  sure,  till  you've  left  me 
for  three  months  by  myself,  whether  I'm  safe  to 
be  let  loose  in  ordinary  cities  among  ordinary 
temptations. 

Dick  stretched  out  a  hand  and  clasped  his 
friend  hard  upon  the  shoulder.  "  Safe  as  a  church, 
old  chap  !  Why,  you've  never  had  a  breakdown 
for  nearly  two  years  !  You  will  keep  it  up  when 
I  am  gone,  won't  you  ?  You  won't  let  yourself 
go?" 

"  No,  I'll  try  not.  I  intend  to  live  the  life  of 
a  hermit ;  and  if  I  weather,  the  three  months  when 
I've  not  got  you  to  watchdog  me,  I  shall  be  pretty 
safe  for  the  rest  of  my  life  !" 


H       A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A    REVELATION. 

"  DICK,"  said  Roger  Meredith,  looking  out 
from  a  great  cloud  of  blue  smoke,  "  were  you  as- 
tonished to  hear  that  I  am  married  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was  a  bit,"  said  Dick.  "  Why  have 
you  kept  so  close  about  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  one  of  the  things,  I  couldn't  talk 
about." 

"  Didn't  you  get  on  with  her  ?  "  Dick  asked. 

"Yes,  I  always  used  to.  But  things  went 
wrong  somehow.  I  came  out  here  determined  to 
make  a  home  for  her  and  to  get  myself  pulled 
straight  again.  I  had  a  sort  of  crazy  notion  that 
I  should  find  fewer  temptations  in  a  new  country 
than  I  had  done  in  the  old  one.  Never  was  a 
greater  fallacy  !  All  countries  are  full  of  tempta- 
tions, and  I  drank  worse  out  here  than  I  had  done 
over  there.  I  was  a  handsome  man  when  I  came 
West " 

"  Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  that  you  are  exactly 
ugly  now,  old  chap." 

"  No  ;  I  know  exactly  what  I  am  like.  I  was 
a  fine  man  once.  As  far  as  my  carcase  goes  I  am 


A  Revelation.  *5 

a  fine  man  now  ;  I  appear  as  well  as  ever  I  did, 
but  I  carry  the  marks  of  what's  gone  down  my 
throat  on  my  face.  I  shall  carry  them  till  I  die. 
When  you  get  like  that,  and  your  wife  is  pretty, 
and  dainty,  and  fastidious,  I  tell  you,  old  chap,  it 
makes  you  shirk  going  home  and  showing  your- 
self changed  so  that  she  might  turn  from  you  in 
disgust.  I  want  to  go  home ;  I've  been  wanting 
to  go  home  ever  since  I  came  out  here  ;  but  I 
don't  want  to  go  home  poor.  I  came  out  to 
make  a  fortune  ;  I  have  made  a  living,  and  that's 
all.  If  she  had  come  with  me,  as  she  wanted  to, 
with  the  child,  I  should  have  made  a  better  living 
perhaps.  I  might  have  kept  straighter — not  since 
1  knew  you,  old  chap,  but  before  that.  Remember 
I  had  been  out  here  eight  years  when  you  came 
across  me  ;  if  I  hadn't  had  a  constitution  like  iron, 
I  should  have  gone  under  long  before  you  turned 
your  back  on  the  old  regiment." 

"  But  did  your  wife  want  to  come  out  ?  " 

"  She  wanted  to  come  out  when  I  left  her.  I 
gave  her  all  the  money  I  could  scrape  together — 
she  had  a  few  pounds  of  her  own,  some  fifty 
pounds  a  year — I  gave  her  what  I  had,  I  took 
what  would  barely  carry  me  into  a  likely  neigh- 
borhood for  work,  and  I  never  wrote  home 
again." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  I  didn't.     Oh,  I'll  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 


16        A   Matter   of  Sentiment 

I  acted  like  a  brute — I  did  worse,  I  acted  like  a 
fool.  I  said  to  her,  '  If  I  don't  succeed,  you'll 
hear  nothing  of  me  again.'  Ah,  how  well  I  re- 
member the  tears  coming  into  her  eyes,  and  how 
she  put  her  little  head  back  and  said,  *  I  shall 
hear  of  you  again,  Roger.  You  are  bound  to  do 
well.'  But,  old  fellow,  it's  taken  me  fifteen  years 
to  do  it ;  and  although  five  thousand  pounds  is  a 
decent  sum  of  money,  it's  nothing  to  swagger 
about." 

"  Ah,  well,  we're  worth  a  great  deal  more  than 
that.  We  have  the  ranche  to  the  good  ;  and 
where  that  five  thousand  pounds  came  from  there 
will  come  another  five  thousand  pounds ;  and 
perhaps  another,  and  yet  another.  Don't  be 
downhearted,  Roger,  you  are  in  the  beginning  of 
better  things  ;  so  am  I,  and  it's  very  pleasant  for 
both  of  us.  Then  you  are  going  to  invest  it  in 
England?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  send  it  home  to  England,  I 
want  you  to  be  my  instrument ;  I  want  you  to 
go  and  find  my  wife — I  will  pay  the  money  into 
the  bank  to  your  order — and  I  want  you  to  see 
whether  she  wants  it ;  to  find  out  how  she  feels 
towards  me,  and  if  she  is  just  the  same  ;  to  tell 
her  the  kind  of  life  I've  lived  ;  to  give  her  an  idea 
of  what  I  am  like  to-day ;  to  let  her  know  that 
I've  never  supplanted  her  or  forgotten  her.  Find 
out  if  there  is  any  chance  left  for  me." 


A   Revelation.  17 

"  You  had  better  get  your  photograph  taken." 

"  My  photograph  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Come  down  with  me  as  far  as  New 
York  and  get  a  first-rate  photograph  taken ;  that 
will  help  you  better  than  anything." 

"  I  might ;  I'm  looking  pretty  fit — yes,  I  might. 
It  would  take  me  out  of  the  loneliness  that  I  am 
dreading,  for  part  of  the  time  at  all  events." 

"  Supposing  she  wants  to  come  out  here  ?  " 

"  The  ranche  is  wide  enough,"  said  Meredith, 
"the  house  is  big  enough.  We  can  add  to  it,  if 
necessary,  only  you  must  make  her  clearly 
understand  that  I've  had  fifteen  years  of  a  rough 
life,  a  hard  life.  I  am  not  the  Roger  Meredith 
who  went  away  ;  my  English  tailor  wouldn't  know 
me." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  chap,  I  don't  think,  married 
man  that  you  are,  that  you  understand  women. 
I'll  tell  her  what  sort  of  a  fellow  you  are  now ; 
I'll  make  her  understand  the  exact  situation — 
leave  it  to  me  ;  and  perhaps  her  first  thought 
will  be  that  her  complexion  is  not  what  it  was, 
her  waist  less  tiny,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I  sup- 
pose I  can  satisfy  her  on  that  score  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes.  There's  no  fear  that  she  will  have 
altered  as  I  have  done.  Time  works  ravages 
upon  us  all,  but  the  ravages  of  time  produce  one 
effect,  and  the  ravages  of  drink  another." 

"  Well,  never  mind,  old  chap,  you  don't  drink 
2 


18       A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

now,  you've  quite  given  it  up  ;  you've  not  touched 
a  drop  for  nearly  two  years,  past.  You  look  as 
fit  as  a  fiddle,  you  are  as  hard  as  iron  and  as 
strong  as  a  horse.  Don't  get  brooding  too  much 
over  yourself,  but  leave  it  to  me,  old  fellow — 
leave  it  to  me." 

"  But  there's  another  thing,"  said  Meredith. 

"Yes?" 

"  I  have  been  away  fifteen  years." 

"  Yes  ;  so  you  say." 

"  I  have  never  written  home ;  she  may  think 
me  dead.  Supposing  when  you've  traced  her  out 
you  find  that  she  has  taken  my  death  for  granted, 
and  she  is  married  again  ?  " 

"  Well  ?     What  then  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  feel,"  Meredith  went  on  in  a 
hard  set  voice,  while  his  eyes  wandered  away  to 
the  distant  hills,  "  I  shouldn't  feel  justified  in  dis- 
closing myself  to  her.  Dick,  it  cuts  me  to  the 
very  heart  to  think  such  a  thing ;  it  makes  me 
sick  with  fear  that  it  may  be  so.  I  have  kept 
silent  all  these  years,  even  to  you,  because  I'd 
failed  in  what  I  came  out  to  do  ;  and  now  that  I 
have  done  it  I  can  talk  more  freely.  I  had  bet- 
ter tell  you  everything  that's  in  my  mind,  and 
then  you'll  know  how  to  deal  with  the  situation 
as  you  find  it.  If  Clara " 

"  So  that's  why  you  called  the  ranche  '  Santa 
Clara'  ? " 


A   Revelation.  19 

"  Of  course.  If  Clara  is  married  again  she 
must  be  left  in  ignorance,  and  I  shall  stay  out 
here  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  I  shall  never  go 
home  again.  I  always  thought  that  chap,  Enoch 
Arden,  was  a  weak  fool  to  come  back  and  dis- 
turb that  wretched  woman's  peace  and  happiness. 
There  were  two  Enoch  Ardens,  you  know,  Dick ; 
there  was  one  who  was  a  man,  and  one  who  was 
a  snivelling  sort  of  a  chap  that  was  better  out  of 
the  way — better  dead.  I  don't  want  to  be  like 
him." 

For  a  moment  or  two  there  was  silence  between 
the  friends. 

"  I  don't  think,  somehow,  that  I  shall  find  her 
married,"  said  Dick  at  last. 

"  You  may  do,  and  it's  best  to  be  prepared  for 
any  contingency,  isn't  it,  Dick  ?  I've  got  a 
photograph  of  her  here.  Would  youlike  to  see  it  ?" 

"  I  should." 

Meredith  dived  down  into  an  inner  pocket  and 
brought  to  view  a  small  leather  case  bound  with 
silver. 

"  Hulio  !  "  said  Dick,  "  I  never  saw  that  be- 
fore." 

"  I  know  you  didn't.  I've  always  had  it  in 
my  pocket  here,  so  that  I  could  carry  it  without 
anyone  else  being  the  wiser.  There  she  is.  It 
was  taken  only  a  few  months  before  I  came  away. 
She  was  a  pretty  girl,  she  must  be  a  pretty  woman 


20       A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

still ;  too  pretty  to  have  passed  unnoticed  all  these 
years." 

Dick  Vincent  stretched  out  his  hand  and  took 
the  portrait  from  his  chum.  I  think  when  one 
first  sees  the  portrait  of  a  person  who  has  been 
very  much  praised  by  another,  one  is  always  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  of  disappointment.  Fora  mo- 
ment Dick's  only  feeling  was  to  hide  from  his 
companion  the  astonishment  and  blank  dismay 
that  he  felt.  Before  him  he  saw  the  picture  of  a 
young  woman,  small  and  inclined  to  be  plump, 
very  fair,  with  wide-open  blue  eyes,  a  perky  little 
nose,  and  a  round  innocent-looking  face.  Not  a 
young  woman  whom  he  would  at  any  time  have 
called  even  passably  pretty,  and  in  marked  con- 
trast to  the  square,  heavy,  passionate  face  of  the 
man  sitting  opposite  to  him. 

"  Is  she  little  ? "  he  asked,  more  by  way  of 
gaining  time  than  from  curiosity. 

"  A  little  tiny  thing,  barely  up  to  my  elbow," 
said  Meredith.  "  A  little  soft  plump  thing  with 
pretty  ways.  I  don't  know  how  I  had  the  heart 
to  leave  her  ;  I  have  never  known ;  I  was  des- 
perate. It  seemed  the  only  thing  to  do — to  take 
my  great  hulking  self  out  of  it  and  leave  her 
what  there  was  to  keep  the  child  alive  on." 

"  And  you  are  her  lover  still  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  been  anything  else,"  said  Mer- 
edith. 


A  Revelation.  ** 

"  And  I  never  even  guessed." 

Meredith  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take  the 
picture  again.  "  I  am  not  the  kind  of  man  who 
talks  and  makes  confidences,"  he  said,  taking  a 
long  satisfied  look  at  the  pictured  face,  "  I  am  a 
reserved  sort  of  fellow — never  was  one  more  so. 
I  have  tried  to  tell  you  all  the  same,  more  than 
once,  but  until  now  I  never  had  the  heart  to 
speak  of  her,  or  the  face." 

"  I  can't  see  that.  I  can't  think  why  you 
didn't  send  for  her  to  come  out." 

"  Because  I  had  been  out  here  eight  years  be- 
fore I  made  five  hundred  pounds.  I  had  kept 
body  and  soul  together,  it's  true.  When  I  met 
you  I  was  about  five  hundred  pounds  to  the  good  ; 
we've  done  fairly  well,  old  chap,  but  it's  been 
nothing  to  boast  about  until  now,  nothing  to  write 
home  about  with  a  flourish  of  trumpets  and  say, 
'  See  !  I've  made  a  fortune;  I  am  flourishing! ' 
No,  no  ;  I  had  kept  silent  for  eight  years,  and  it 
was  best  to  go  on." 

"  Perhaps  it  wasn't  best  for  her." 

"  Perhaps  it  wasn't ;  perhaps  it  was.  Time 
will  show,  and  you  will  know  before  I  shall. 
Then  you  will  do  that  for  me,  old  fellow  ?  You 
will  go  and  look  her  up  ?  " 

"  But  you  don't  expect  she  is  still  in  the  same 
place  where  you  left  her  ?  " 

"  She  might  be.     I  left  her  in  London.     Any- 


22       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

way,  the  trustee  of  her  little  property  is  bound  to 
be  in  the  same  place,  or  he'll  have  left  traces  be- 
hind him.      I  shall  give  you  his   address   and  his 
name,  and  you  can  go  and  see   him   and  casually 
find  out  about  her  and  about   the   child,  without 
giving  me  away  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world." 
"  1  don't  quite  see  how." 
"  No,  neither  do  I,  but  you  must." 
"All  right,"  said  Dick,  "I'll  do  my  best." 
"  And  if  you  find  there's  a  '  Philip  '  in  the  case, 
then  you  just  come  back  as  mum  as  I've  been  all 
these  years,  and  I'll  go  on  for  the  rest  of  my  life 
at  Santa  Clara." 

"All  right,  old  fellow.  And  if  there  is  a 
c  Philip,'  what  am  I  to  do  with  the  money  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  money  ?  Well,  you  can  use  your 
discretion  about  that.  You  see,  there  was  a  little 
kid  ;  she  was  just  three  when  I  came  away  ;  she 
may  want  a  dot.  Use  your  discretion,  old  chap, 
and  you'll  satisfy  me.  You  know  me  well  enough 
by  this  time  to  know  what  I  should  do  if  I  were 
there  in  your  shoes." 

"  And  supposing,"  said  Dick,  drawing  rather 
hard  at  his  pipe  and  speaking  in  jerks  between 
the  puffs,  "supposing  there's  no  '  Philip' — just 
supposing,  old  fellow,  on  the  off  chance — well, 
supposing  1  find  thatthe  little  woman  has  been  look- 
ing for  you  back  all  these  years — more  than  will- 
ing to  comeout — amltouse  my  discretion  then  ? " 


A  Revelation.  23 

For  a  moment  Meredith  did  not  speak. 
"  Bring  her  out  here  ?  "  he  said  at  last,  "  here  ?  " 
— and  he  looked  round  at  the  corrugated  iron  hut, 
for  it  was  little  more,  with  its  broad  veranda,  its 
rough  chairs,  its  wholly  unadorned  bachelor  ap- 
pearance, and  then  he  looked  back  at  Dick. 
"  Don't  you  think,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  it 
would  scare  any  woman  to  come  out  to  this  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  Dick,  stoutly  ;  "  not  any 
woman  that  was  worth  bringing." 

"  But  think  of  this — this  bare,  beggarly  place, 
compared  with  Frith's  place  for  instance." 

"  Well,  the  house  is  just  as  good  as  Frith's 
house,  and  the  veranda  is  wider ;  our  chairs  are 
bigger.  It  isn't  got  up  inside  as  Frith's  house 
is,  but  then  Frith's  wife  is  with  him.  When  your 
wife  has  been  with  you  three  months,  old  fellow, 
you'll  not  know  this  hut,  and  you  and  I  won't 
know  each  other.  Remember  you  have  got 
money  enough  now  to  bring  up  any  things  that 
are  necessary  to  make  the  place  habitable  and  fit 
for  a  lady  ;  and  then,  of  course,  don't  forget  that 
it  was  only  a  supposition.  Perhaps  I  shall  find  a 
<  Philip.'  " 

Meredith's  square  face  sank ;  his  great  beetling 
brows  bent  themselves  down  over  his  fierce  eyes, 
and  his  huge  mustache  bristled  up  on  either  side 
of  his  great  hook  nose. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said.     "  For  a  minute  or 


24       A  Matter   of  Sentiment. 

so  I  let  my  thoughts  run  on  too  fast.  I  almost 
fancied  that  I  saw  her  here  already.  It  only 
shows,"  he  went  on  with  a  reckless  kind  of  laugh, 
"  what  havoc  a  little  sentiment  can  play  with  a 
man,  even  a  man  as  hard,  and  practical,  and 
commonplace  as  I  am." 

"  You  are  practical,  that  is  perfectly  true  ;  but 
I  have  never  known  you  either  hard  or  common- 
place," said  Dick.  "  I  know  when  I  had  that  go 
of  fever  you  nursed  me  like  a  woman." 

"  Oh,  stop  that !  "  cried  Meredith. 

"  And  when  Lassie  got  her  foot  crushed " 

"  Shut  up  !  "  growled  the  other. 

"Yes,  I'll  shut  up,  but  you  know  what  I 
mean." 

A  groan  from  Meredith  was  the  only  reply 
which  he  vouchsafed  to  this  real  Englishman's 
eulogy.  The  two  puffed  away  in  the  gathering 
darkness  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  Dick  Vincent 
broke  the  silence. 

"  I  have  a  sort  of  idea,  Roger,"  he  said,  "  that 
there  is  going  to  be  a  change.  I  feel  it  all  round 
me  ;  not  from  what  you've  told  me  to-night,  but 
for  days  past.  I  feel  that  you  and  I  are  both  of 
us  on  the  brink  of  a  change  ;  things  are  going  to 
be  better  with  us,  old  fellow.  If  we  are  not  mil- 
lionaires, we  are  going  to  be  comfortably  off;  and 
1  don't  know  that  that  isn't  the  happier  position 
ot  the  two.  I  have  felt  ever  so  many  times  lately 


A   Revelation.  25 

that  we  should  be  happier  and  better  off  if  we 
were  both  married.  Life's  a  miserable  thing  for 
a  man  without  some  womenkind.  I  feel  that 
there  are  going  to  be  great  results  from  this  trip 
home  of  mine  ;  I  have  conviction  of  it." 

"  My  dear  Dick,"  said  the  other,  "  you  have 
put  new  hope  and  new  life  into  me  to-night ;  you 
have  given  me  a  new  incentive  to  keep  straight 
while  you  are  away.  If  it  happens  that  you  are 
able  to  bring  her  back  again,  well  and  good. 
She'll  come  out  here,  and  afterwards  when  you  see 
somebody  that  you  fancy,  we  can  build  another 
house  on  the  ranche,  for  there's  plenty  of  room, 
and  there  will  be  plenty  of  money." 

"  But  supposing  I  find  a  f  Philip '  ?  " 

"  Well,  I've  told  you  what  will  happen  to  me, 
therefore  you  need  not  let  any  thoughts  of  me 
stop  you  from  bringing  a  wife  out  here  as  soon  as 
you  like — only  in  that  case  let's  add  to  this  house. 
Don't  turn  out,  or  turn  me  out  into  another  ;  I 
couldn't  stand  living  by  myself.  I  shouldn't  last 
three  months." 

"  Old  fellow,"  said  Dick,  stretching  out  his 
hand  towards  the  glow  of  the  other's  pipe,  "  I 
understand  you  perfectly,  and  I  shall  never  for- 
get as  long  as  I  live  how  entirely  unselfish  you 
are  and  always  have  been  to  me.  I  don't  know," 
he  went  on,  in  a  lighter  tone,  "that  I  shall  ever 
avail  myself  of  your  generosity,  for  I  have  never 


26       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

seen  the  girl  yet  that  I  would  thank  you  to  put 
in  command  over  me.  Still,  there's  no  knowing  ; 
and  a  ranche  with  a  woman  on  it  is  not  half  as 
forlorn  a  business  as  one  that  is  run  only  by  men. 
So,  for  both  our  sakes,  old  fellow,  you  may  rest 
assured  that  I  shall  do  my  level  best  to  bring  a 
mistress  home  to  Santa  Clara." 


Temptation. 


CHAPTER  III. 

TEMPTATION. 

A  FEW  days  later  Meredith  and  Dick  Vincent 
turned  their  backs  upon  Santa  Clara  and  set  off 
towards  the  great  cities.  Both  men  had  discarded 
the  flannel  shirts  and  moleskin  trousers  which  was 
their  habitual  wear  on  the  ranche,  both  were 
dressed  in  the  ordinary  tweed  suits  of  English- 
men, and  if  Meredith  had  looked  a  magnificent 
animal,  as  he  did,  in  his  working  clothes,  he 
showed  to  supreme  advantage  in  a  rough  brown 
suit  of  exellent  cut  which  showed  off  his  massive 
proportions  extremely  well. 

"  Old  fellow,"  said  Dick,  when  he  first  en- 
countered him  dressed  for  the  journey,  "  I  be- 
lieve it's  worth  while  to  wear  moleskins  and  red 
flannel  shirts  as  a  regular  habit,  if  it  is  only  to  see 
the  difference  that  it  makes  when  one  gets  into 
regular  clothes.  You  look  as  fit  as  a  fiddle  in 
that  kit.  You  had  better  change  your  mind  and 
go  the  whole  way  with  me." 

"  No,  I  can't  do  that,"  said  Meredith,  rather 
gloomily. 


18       A  Matter   of  Sentiment. 

"  You  can  keep  out  of  sight,  you  know,  whilst 
I  prosecute  inquiries.  You  can  stay  at  my  place 
while  I  go  and  find  out  whether  there  is  a '  Philip  ' 
or  there  isn't." 

"  No,  I  am  not  fit  for  civilized  society,"  Mere- 
dith returned,  "  and  I  wish  I  hadn't  promised  to 
go  down  as  far  as  New  York  with  you — indeed, 
I  don't  know  that  I  shall." 

"  Nonsense,  old  chap !  You  don't  know 
what's  good  for  you.  I  shan't  go  down  to  New 
York  unless  you  do  go.  I'm  not  going  to  have 
you  brooding  alone  here.  You  had  much  better 
make  up  your  mind  to  go  all  the  way,  and  lie 
low  until  I  have  done  all  the  necessary  detective 
business. 

"  No,  no ;  second  thoughts  are  never  best,  it's 
the  greatest  fallacy  in  the  world  to  say  that  they 
are — put  forward  by  some  ass  who  wanted  a  good 
excuse  for  breaking  a  promise  or  indulging  him- 
self in  something  or  other." 

"  But  you  have  not  made  a  promise  that  you 
won't  go  to  England." 

"  No,  I  have  not,  but  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  ;  and  although  I  don't  say  my  mind  is  any 
great  shakes  as  a  mind,  at  the  same  time,  such  as 
it  is  I  am  going  to  stick  to  it." 

So  the  two  friends  went  down  to  Freeman's 
Rock  together,  accompanied  so  far  by  Jack 
Frogg,  who  had  various  business  to  do  in  the 


Temptation.  29 

little  town,  and  who,  after  parting  with  them, 
would  bring  the  wagon  and  horses  back  to  Santa 
Clara. 

"  You  will  be  down  every  week  ?  "  said  Mer- 
edith the  last  thing  to  the  manager. 

"  Yes,  every  week  ;  every  Saturday,"  was  the 
reply. 

"  Then  I  shall  write  to  you  to  Ainslie's  to  let 
you  know  what  day  I  shall  come  back.  Then 
you  can  either  wait  for  me  or  come  down  again, 
as  it  suits  you." 

"  Right  you  are,  Boss,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Better  change  your  mind  and  go  on  to 
England  with  me,"  put  in  Dick  at  this  junc- 
ture. 

"  Right  you  are  there,"  was  the  free  and  easy 
remark  of  the  manager.  "  There's  nothing  doing 
here  now,  and  there  won't  be  anything  until  early 
fall.  The  Boss  can  be  spared  perfectly  well. 
And  he  knows  me,"  Jack  Frogg  went  on,  "  he 
knows  I  am  a  square  man  who  would  look  after 
his  interests  properly." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  are,  Jack,"  rejoined 
Meredith,  promptly,"  I  know  you  are.  You  are 
a  good  sort,  but  it  don't  suit  my  book  to  think 
of  going  home  this  trip,  so  don't  either  of  you 
say  another  word  about  it." 

The  three  men  spent  the  rest  of  the  day 
together  in  Freeman's  Rock,  and  in  the  early 


3°       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

morning  Jack  Frogg  saw  his  two  employers  off 
by  the  coach  which  runs  from  Freeman's  Rock 
down  to  Midas  Creek.  Frogg  himself  was  going 
to  start  on  his  homeward  journey  an  hour  or  two 
later.  It  was  part  of  the  creed  of  the  manage- 
ment of  Santa  Clara  that  unless  absolutely  neces- 
sary the  animals  on  the  estate,  especially  the 
horses,  should  never  be  over-pressed.  He  would 
drive  half-way  home,  stop  for  a  couple  of  hours' 
rest  and  feed  at  a  house  half-way,  and  arrive  at 
Santa  Clara  in  the  early  evening. 

The  ride  from  Freeman's  Rock  to  Midas  Creek 
was  one  of  a  little  over  forty  miles.  The  roads 
were  bad,  and  the  coach  crowded.  Dick  soon 
found  that  Meredith  was  not  inclined  for  talk, 
and  suffered  him  to  relapse  into  silence  ;  and  so 
he  sat  in  his  corner,  smoking  hard  and  staring 
gloomily  right  ahead  of  him,  taking  no  notice  of 
the  rough  fun  that  was  bandied  from  one  to 
another.  One  or  two  of  the  passengers  made 
efforts  to  draw  him  out,  but  when  at  last,  goaded 
into  speech,  he  replied  to  their  sallies,  it  was  with 
such  savage  brevity  that  their  efforts  at  cheery 
friendliness  soon  ceased,  and  he  was  left  entirely 
to  himself. 

At  last  they  reached  Midas  Creek.  It  was  a 
somewhat  larger  place  than  Freeman's  Rock,  and 
better  worthy  of  being  called  a  town.  The  coach 
drew  up  at  the  principal  hotel,  a  long,  rambling 


Temptation.  31 

building  which  had  begun  as  a  shanty  and  had 
been  added  to  as  the  needs  of  the  place  grew. 
The  landlord  came  out  to  receive  the  coach  and 
its  freight  of  passengers,  an  Englishman,  cheery, 
and  smooth  of  voice.  He  told  them  collectively 
that  a  good  dinner  was  within,  and  bade  them  all 
a  genial  welcome. 

Meredith  swung  into  the  house  without  a  word  ; 
Vincent  paused  to  pass  the  time  of  day  in  return 
to  the  landlord's  greeting.  Ten  minutes  later 
they  were  settled  at  the  table  along  with  all  the 
other  passengers. 

"  I  will  take  rye  whisky,"  said  Meredith. 

Dick  looked  up.  Meredith  carefully  avoided 
his  eye. 

"  Blingee  whiskly,"  said  the  Chinese  boy,  who 
was  attending  to  the  wants  of  the  various  diners. 
"  Blingee  d'lectly." 

"  I  say,  Roger,"  said  Dick  in  an  undertone. 

Meredith  took  no  notice.  Dick  gave  him  a 
vigorous  nudge  with  his  knee. 

"  Roger  ! " 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  say,  old  chap,"  he  muttered  into  his  ear, 
"  don't  start  on  whisky.  You  are  put  out." 

"  What  the is  that  to  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  do  it,  old  chap." 

"  D it  all !  Can't  I  do  as  I  like  ?  Am  I 

to  be  kept  in  leading-strings  by  a  little  whipper- 


32         A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

snapper  like  you  ?  I'll  drink  what  I  like — and 
do  what  I  like." 

"  All  right.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  trying  to 
coerce  you  by  physical  means.  A  man  of  five- 
foot-ten  of  my  build  wouldn't  have  much  of  a 
chance  against  a  giant  like  you.  I  speak  for  your 
own  sake.  It  won't  make  much  difference  to 
me." 

"  Very  well,  then ;  shut  up  and  hold  your  row. 
It's  my  affair,  not  yours." 

Thus  rebuffed,  Dick  turned  his  attention  to  his 
right-hand  neighbor,  and  began  talking  to  him  in 
cool  and  measured  tones.  For  a  minute  or  two 
Meredith  sat  without  turning  his  head.  Then 
he  stealthily  glanced  in  Dick's  direction,  saw  that 
he  was  absolutely  unruffled,  so  turned  his  eyes  to 
his  plate  again  ;  but  when  the  Chinese  boy  brought 
the  whisky  he  helped  himself  liberally  and  dashed 
in  a  modicum  of  cold  water. 

Then  he  pushed  the  bottle  to  Dick.  "  Whisky, 
Dick  ?  " 

"  Thanks,"  said  Dick,  "  thanks,"  and  he,  too, 
helped  himself,  though  much  more  moderately 
than  Meredith  had  done. 

They  were  all  more  or  less  tired  after  the  long 
drive,  and  when  the  dinner  had  been  cleared 
away,  every  one  of  the  men  dropped  out  and  took 
up  their  positions  in  various  parts  of  what  the 
landlord,  with  a  remembrance  of  his  English  coun- 


Temptation.  33 

try  home,  always  spoke  of  as  the  "  house  place." 
Here  Meredith  settled  himself  down  in  a  great 
rocking-chair.  Dick  followed  him  by  a  sort  of 
protective  instinct.  Meredith,  upon  whom  the 
several  glasses  of  rye  whisky  which  he  had  taken 
during  the  course  of  dinner  had  begun  to  tell, 
looked  up  suspiciously  at  him. 

"  Are  you  afraid  I  can't  be  trusted,  Dick  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  For  the  matter  of  that,"  answered  Dick,  "  I 
know  you  can't.  Old  chap,  you  are  moody  and 
upset  at  my  going  away  from  Santa  Clara.  Take 
my  advice  ;  send  a  line  back  to  Frogg  and  come 
on  all  the  way  with  me.  You  will  be  better  for  it 
— I  shall  be  better  for  it.  But  for  goodness'  sake, 
don't  drink  any  more  whisky  to-night." 

"  Look  here,  young  'un,"  said  Meredith,  "  it 
strikes  me  I  have  been  in  leading-strings  long 
enough  to  you.  I  am  sick  of  it.  I  have  lived 
the  life  of  a  dog  these  last  few  months.  I  am 
going  to  end  it  now  for  good  and  all." 

"You  are  not  going  to  quarrel  with  me,  are 
you  ?  "  asked  Dick. 

"  Quarrel  with  you  ?  No,  I  am  not  going  to 
quarrel  with  anybody  ;  but  there  is  too  much 
supervision  about  you — too  much  superiority." 

"  Oh,  Roger  !     Why,  old  fellow " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  know.  You  know  what's 
going  to  happen  as  well  as  I  do.  I've  got  another 
3 


34         A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

drinking  fit  coming  on.  You  know  it's  no  good 
to  stop  me  ;  wild  horses  couldn't  do  it.  I  didn't 
sleep  last  night.  I  felt  as  soon  as  I  got  on  to 
that  coach  that  I  should  start  drinking  as  soon  as 
I  got  here.  Spare  your  breath.  I'm  hard  on  for 
a  regular  burst." 

"  What  about  Santa  Clara  ?  " 

"  Santa  Clara  ?  " 

"And  the  mistress  that  I've  got  to  bring  back 
if  I  come  ?  " 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  You'll  find  another  <  Philip,'  " 
Meredith  cried  with  a  wild  sneer.  "  At  all 
events,  a  glass  or  two  to-night  won't  make  much 
difference.  If  there  isn't  a  c  Philip,'  you  can  send 
me  a  cable  and  I'll  put  myself  into  training  to  re- 
ceive a  lady." 

One  or  two  other  men  came  up,  and  Dick 
turned  away.  He  knew  from  old  experience  that 
it  was  perfectly  useless  to  argue  the  point  any 
further  ;  on  the  contrary  he  stepped  straight  out  in 
search  of  the  landlord. 

"  Look  here,  landlord,"  he  said,  drawing  him 
aside  from  the  rest  of  the  company,  "  I  want  you 
to  do  me  a  favor." 

"  Why,  yes,  if  I  can,  sir,  of  course  I  will." 

"  My  friend,  Mr.  Meredith,  I  am  afraid,  is 
going  on  the  drink.  I  want  to  stop  it.  I  have 
the  most  urgent  reasons  for  wanting  him  to  keep 
straight  just  now.  He  is  perfectly  unmanageable 


Temptation.  3$ 

when  he  is  drinking ;  he  hasn't  touched  a  thing 
for  nearly  two  years  until  to-night.  Can't  you 
help  me  by  watering  his  whisky  or  something  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  can  do  that,  provided  he  doesn't  help 
himself  to  the  bottles  of  any  of  the  others." 

"  I  wish  you  would,  you'd  be  such  a  good 
chap.  He  is  one  of  the  sort  that  drink  maddens  ; 
it  takes  away  all  chance  of  sleep,  and  I  shan't  be 
able  to  go  forward  on  my  journey  if  he  gets  on 
the  rampage  here.  Do  your  best,  landlord." 

"  I  will  that  same,  sir.  Boy,  whose  orders  are 
you  going  for  now." 

"  Big  gen'l'man — Meledith,"  answered  the 
boy. 

"  What  has  he  ordered  ? " 

"  Bottle  whiskly.     Velly  quick." 

"  All  right,  I'll  come.  I'll  make  it  half-and- 
half,"  he  added  in  an  undertone  to  Dick. 

Dick  turned  back  into  the  more  crowded  part 
of  the  "  house  place."  What  would  have  happened 
if  Meredith  had  received  the  bottle  of  whisky 
undoctored  it  is  impossible  to  say  ;  as  it  was,  he 
sat  drinking  far  into  the  night,  and  when  at  last  he 
reeled  off  to  bed,  he  was  as  royally  drunk  as  ever 
he  had  been  in  his  life. 

To  Dick  he  was  amiability  and  apology  itself. 
"  Old  chap,"  he  said,  as  Dick  helped  him  up  from 
the  rocking-chair,  "  I've  broken  out  to-night.  I'm 
awfully  sorry.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  old  fellow, 


36         A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

I — I  feel — at  least  I  felt  depressed  and  morose  ; 
and — fact  was  I  dreaded  your  going  away — fact 
was,  old  chap,  you  are — you  are  a  sort  of  drag  on 
the  wheel.  See  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  Dick,  "  but  what  about 
Santa  Clara  and  the  mistress  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  she  won't  mind.  Just  once,  you 
know.  Have  a  cold  pump  on  my  head  to-mor- 
fow  morning — and  we'll  get  on  the  cars  and  be  out 
of  this.  Fact  is,  old  chap,  I'm  a  poor  sort  of 
tool,  take  me  all  round.  You've  got  the  patience 
of  Job  with  me." 

"  Don't  take  any  more  to-morrow,"  said  Dick, 
holding  him  tight  by  the  arm  and  looking  at  him 
anxiously,  "  don't  do  it,  old  fellow.  Every  burst 
you  make  you  slip  back  years.  Promise  me  you 
won't  take  any  more." 

"  Oh,  promise  ?  Anything — anything.  Put 
my  name  to  it  if  I  could  see  to  write." 

"  Give  me  your  word — that  will  be  quite 
enough,"  returned  Dick. 

"  Give  you  a  hundred  and  fifty  words.  Gad,  I 
would  do  that  same !  Haven't  enjoyed  it — feel 
much  worse  for  it — be  chippy  in  the  morning. 
Helpa  chap  to  bed." 

So  Dick  helped  him  to  bed,  and  saw  him  safely 
asleep.  Truth  to  tell,  he  was  utterly  tired  him- 
self. The  anxiety  and  strain  of  trying  to  keep 
his  partner  straight  had  taken  as  much  out  of  him 


Temptation.  37 

as  a  long  day's  work  would  have  done.  As  soon 
as  he  had  seen  Meredith  safely  asleep,  he  turned 
in  himself,  and  slept  a  sound  and  dreamless  sleep 
until  the  day  was  far  advanced. 

When  he  awoke  he  opened  his  eyes  with  a  start, 
glanced  across  to  the  other  bed,  and  saw  that  it 
was  empty.  He  got  up  and  began  hastily  dress- 
ing. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  his  thoughts  ran.  "  What  did  I 
want  to  sleep  like  this  for  ?  All  because  of  being 
so  infernally  easily  knocked  up.  Now  that  chap's 
gone  out,  and  goodness  knows  what  has  happened 
to  him." 

He  hustled  into  his  clothes,  making  a  very 
scanty  toilet,  and  hied  him  in  search  of  Meredith. 
Alack,  and  alas,  he  found  him  sitting  in  the  bar, 
a  bottle  of  rye  whisky  in  front  of  him,  his  glass 
three-parts  full.  It  looked  to  Dick  as  if  it  was 
neat. 

As  he  perceived  his  friend  standing  at  the  door, 
Meredith  caught  up  the  glass  and  tossed  off  the 
contents  at  a  single  gulp.  Dick  strode  up  to  him. 

"  What  did  you  promise  me  ? "  he  asked  in  a 
furious  voice. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Meredith,  "  and  I  don't 
care." 

"  You  promised  me  you  wouldn't  touch  another 
drop." 

"  Did  I  ?     What  a fool  I  must  have  been  ! 


38         A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

My  dear  old  boy,  I've  had  nearly  a  bottle  full 
this  morning.     It's  bad  whisky,  as  I've  been  tell- 
ing the  landlord ;  one  has  to  drink  quarts  of  it 
before  it  has  any  effect." 
"  Roger,  you  promised." 
"  Was  I  drunk  when  I  promised  ?  " 
"  Yes,  you  were  drunk." 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  you  couldn't  expect  a 
drunken  man  to  keep  his  promise.  I  know  I 
went  off  to  bed  last  night  in  a  good  temper  with 
everybody,  and  I'm  pretty  good-tempered  this 
morning;  but  if  I'm  roused— 

"  Oh,  come,  don't  give  me  any  of  that  rot ! 
You  made  me  a  promise,  and  you've  broken  it — 
that's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Meredith,  "that's  the  long  and 
the  short  of  it." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  poured  out 
nearly  a  tumblerful  of  the  raw  spirit. 

"I'm  d d   if  you  shall  drink  that,"   said 

Dick,  snatching  at  the  glass. 

In  an   instant    Meredith  was  on   his  feet,  the 
bottle  in   his    hand.     "  You    think,"    he    cried, 
flourishing  it    around,   "  that  you   are  going  to 
bully  over  me — over  me  ?     Why,  I  could  squeeze 
your  windpipe  forever  with  a  twist  of  my  finger 
and  thumb.     Put  that  glass  down  !  " 
"  No  !  "  said  Dick. 
"  Put  that  glass  down,  I  tell  you." 


Temptation.  39 

"  No,  not  if  you  brain  me  !  "  said  Dick,  fixing 
him  with  his  steady  blue  eyes. 

Meredith  sat  down  again.  "  Very  well,  then, 
do  the  other  thing.  I  don't  like  drinking  out  of 
the  bottle,  it  isn't  gentlemanly  ;  but  since  you 
drive  me  to  it,  there's  no  choice."  And  then  he 
raised  the  bottle  to  his  lips  and  took  a  long  drink. 


4P        A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  END  OF  IT. 

FROM  the  moment  that  Roger  Meredith  raised 
the  bottle  to  his  lips  Dick  Vincent  completely 
lost  control  over  him.  Beyond  arranging  with 
the  landlord  to  water  the  whisky,  he  was  power- 
less to  do  more  than  sit  down  and  wait  the  issue 
of  events.  For  one  thing  Meredith  was,  as  I 
have  said,  a  man  of  enormous  stature  and  of  im- 
mensely powerful  physique ;  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  use  force,  at  all  events  useless  for 
Dick  to  do  so,  and  Dick  was  the  only  person  in 
the  hotel  who  was  deeply  interested  in  keeping 
Meredith  straight. 

He  gave  up  all  idea  of  proceeding  further  on 
his  journey,  and  determined  to  sit  down  and  wait, 
with  what  patience  he  could,  the  usual  issue  of 
the  drinking  bout.  Meredith's  drinking  bouts 
had  always  gone  on  the  same  lines — a  few  days 
of  mad  drinking,  then  a  period  of  sleeplessness 
with  fits  of  uncontrollable  frenzy.  Between  the 
inability  to  sleep,  and  the  inability  to  eat,  even 
Meredith's  magnificent  strength  would  break 


The  End  of  It.  41 

down  in  time,  and  with  the  helplessness  of  weak- 
ness would  come  the  chance  to  knock  off  drink 
entirely  and  start  life  again  with  the  diet  of  a  little 
child.  Then  Dick  would  get  him  back  to  Santa 
Clara  again,  and  begin  anew  the  task  of  building 
him  up  into  a  steady-going  reputable  character. 

Dick  was  terribly  downcast  at  the  turn  which 
events  had  taken.  He  blamed  himself  for  not 
making  some  excuses  and  turning  back  when  he 
first  perceived  how  gloomy  and  depressed  Mere- 
dith had  become.  "  He  has  thrown  himself  back 
years  !  "  his  thoughts  ran  on  the  second  day  after 
they  reached  Midas  Creek,  when  Meredith  was 
sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  "  house  place,"  no  longer 
a  man,  but  a  mere  whisky-consuming  animal. 
His  great  frame  seemed  to  have  shrunk  some- 
what ;  his  eyes,  fixed  on  the  fire  or  some  part  of 
the  room  where  there  were  no  people,  were  blood- 
shot and  lack-luster,  his  hands  were  shaky,  and 
when  he  managed  to  reel  from  one  place  to  an- 
other his  knees  visibly  gave  under  his  weight. 
He  was  a  pitiable  object,  and  Dick  determined,  as 
he  found  that  they  were  strangely  enough  un- 
known to  any  of  the  people  in  the  hotel,  that  he 
would,  as  far  as  possible,  keep  his  identity  a  secret. 
His  friend's  name  he  had  already  mentioned  to 
the  landlord,  who  was  comparatively  a  newcomer 
to  the  neighborhood ;  his  own  he  was  careful  not 
to  tell. 


4*         A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

Life  in  the  Far  West  is  very  free  and  easy. 
Those  who  frequented  the  hotel  kept  as  much  as 
possible  out  of  the  way  of  Meredith,  whom  they 
regarded  as  a  dangerous  brute,  too  far  gone  in 
drink  even  to  quarrel  with.  Some  of  them  had 
no  idea  that  the  two  were  traveling  together  ; 
others,  with  scarce  more  than  a  passing  thought, 
wondered  that  a  smart  young  fellow  like  Dick 
could  trouble  himself  to  try  to  keep  such  a  brute 
straight.  And  Meredith,  mind  you,  had  degen- 
erated into  a  mere  brute.  Those  who  had  known 
him  in  his  sober  days  would  hardly  have  recog- 
nized the  sodden,  inert  mass  which  he  had  now 
become. 

So  three  or  four  days  went  by.  Dick  did  not 
keep  very  closely  to  the  hotel,  but  prospected 
the  immediate  neighborhood — thus  quite  unwit- 
tingly giving  an  impression  that  he  was  thinking 
of  buying  land  and  establishing  himself  near  by. 
In  truth,  Dick  was  so  miserable  that  he  kept  as 
much  out  of  the  hotel  as  possible,  in  order  that 
he  might  not  see  the  degrading  process  which 
would,  he  hoped,  eventually  bring  Meredith  once 
more  under  his  control  and  influence. 

So  four  days  had  gone  by.  It  happened  on 
the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  that  Dick  returned 
from  a  prowl  round  the  little  town.  He  was  met 
at  the  door  by  the  landlord,  who  wore  an  anxious 
face. 


The  End  of  It.  43 

"We've  had  a  most  awful  time,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Your  friend  has  gone  clean  off  his  head.  Oh, 
yes,  completely.  The  fact  is  he  came  into  the 
bar  for  another  bottle  of  whisky,  and  he  had 
gone  through  the  other  so  fast,  and  he  came 
upon  me  so  suddenly  for  it,  that  I  hadn't  time  to 
doctor  it.  In  fact,  he  took  it  off  the  shelf  him- 
self." 

"  And  of  course  the  raw  spirit  finished  the  busi- 
ness," said  Dick,  with  a  groan.  "  What  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  "  said  the  landlord.  "Well,  he  is  like 
a  dangerous  lunatic  at  present.  We  look  to  you 
to  do  something." 

"  I  can't  do  anything,"  said  Dick.  "  I  am  a 
mere  thread-paper  compared  to  him.  Where  is 
he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  is  up  in  that  corner  of  the  *  house 
place '  by  the  window,  jibbering  like  an  ape,  and 
muttering  and  talking  to  himself  and  hurling 
threats  at  somebody  or  other.  I  wish  he  was 
safe  out  of  the  place." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Dick.  "  He  hasn't  had  a  bout 
of  this  kind  for  over  two  years.  I  suppose  it's 
something  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  that  has 
started  him  on  again.  Anyway,  there  is  nothing 
for  it  now  but  doing  the  best  we  can  for  him.  I 
will  go  and  see  what  he  says  to  me ;  sometimes 
he  will  let  me  do  as  I  like  with  him.  Anyhow, 


44       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

this  sort  of  thing  cannot  last  long,  because  he 
never  sleeps  and  he  never  eats,  and  of  course  his 
strength  gets  reduced  very  quickly.  He  will  be 
all  right  when  once  he  gets  the  turn,  you  know." 

"  I  hope  he  will ! "  said  the  landlord  ;  "  I  don't 
like  having  a  wild  beast  in  my  place  at  all.  I  am 
not  used  to  it." 

Dick  laughed.  "  You  will  have  to  get  used  to 
some  very  queer  things  if  you  stay  out  here  long," 
he  returned. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  landlord ;  "  poverty  makes  us 
acquainted  with  strange  bedfellows." 

Dick  turned  round  and  looked  at  him.  "  You 
had  a  better  position  in  the  old  country  ?  " 

"  I  had  that  same,"  said  the  landlord.  "  I 
needn't  say  that  I  don't  carry  the  same  name  here 
that  I  did  at  home.  I  am  doing  well  enough,  I 
am  able  to  make  a  living  here,  and  a  good  one. 
I  was  a  failure  at  it  over  there,  but  if  my  people 
could  see  me  serving  out  whisky  to  such  fellows 
as  that,  well — I  think  those  that  are  dead  would 
turn  in  their  graves,  and  those  that  are  living 
would  never  get  their  hair  to  lie  straight  again." 

"Ah,  well,  life's  a  queer  riddle,"  said  Dick, 
"  and  that  poor  chap  in  there  has  found  it  as 
queer  a  riddle  as  most  people.  He's  a  good  sort 
at  the  bottom,  when  he  hasn't  got  these  drinking 
fits," 

"  Ah,  me,  that's    the   case  with  a  good  many 


The   End   of  It.  45 

men,"  said  the  landlord.  "  But  I  do  wish  you 
would  go  in  and  see  what  you  can  make  of  him." 

Dick  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  into  the 
"  house  place."  It  was  practically  deserted,  al- 
though in  a  very  short  time  dinner  would  be 
spread  on  the  long  table  which  ran  from  end  to 
end  of  it.  In  a  huge  arm-chair  near  the  fireplace 
a  man  sat,  half-asleep.  He  was  a  stranger,  who 
had  arrived  a  short  time  before  by  the  coach,  and 
had  settled  himself  down  to  wait  until  dinner 
should  be  ready.  At  a  table  further  on  two  men 
were  playing  cards,  with  pipes  in  their  mouths, 
and  each  with  a  glass  of  rye  whisky  at  his  elbow. 
In  the  corner,  near  to  the  "  big  window,"  as  it 
was  called,  in  contradistinction  to  two  small  win- 
dows on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  sat  Roger 
Meredith.  He  had  turned  his  chair  so  that  his 
back  was  towards  the  room,  and  the  bottle  of 
whisky  which  he  had  seized  from  the  landlord 
was  standing  on  the  table  beside  him.  Standing  ? 
No,  I  should  say  lying  in  such  a  way  as  clearly 
showed  that  it  was  empty.  His  long  legs  were 
stretched  out  in  front  of  him,  his  chin  was  sunk- 
upon  his  breast,  his  glaring  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
window,  and  his  helpless  hands  hung  over  the 
arms  of  his  chair. 

"  Death  !  "  he  was  saying,  as  Dick  softly  ap- 
proached him.  "  Death  !  I  will  be  even  with 
him  yet.  I  have  owed  him  a  grudge  these  nine 


46       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

years  ;  I  will  pay  it  with  interest.  Psalm-singing 
devil !  He  thought  to  come  over  me  with  his 
Bible  quotations.  Roger  Meredith  ain't  that 
sort.  Roger  Meredith  never  forgets.  Roger 
Meredith  never  forgives.  Roger  Meredith  pays 
his  debts.  So  I  will  pay  this  debt.  Boy  !  Boy, 
more  whisky  !  " 

The  Chinese  boy  came  running  at  the  sound 
of  his  name.  "  More  whiskly  ?  Blingee  d'lectly." 
He  seized  the  bottle  and  ran  away  back  to  the 
bar. 

Meredith  went  on  muttering.  "  I  know  what 
it  all  meant.  He  wanted  her — and  that  was  at 
the  bottom  of  it.  He  had  seen  her  ;  he  thought 
if  I  could  get  her  out  here  that  he'd  get  hold  of 
her.  The  hound  !  So  he  offered  to  lend  me  the 
money  ;  and  now  I've  plenty  of  money — heaps  of 
it — piles  of  it.  I  could  run  my  fingers  through 
it  like  a  miser — I  could  let  it  fall  like  a  shower  of 
golden  rain.  Boy  !  More  whisky  !  " 

At  this  moment  Dick  went  forward  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  Meredith's  shoulder.  "  Old  chap," 
he  said,  "  don't  have  any  more  whisky." 

Meredith  looked  up.  "  Who  the  devil  are 
you  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  ludicrous  attempt  at  dig- 
nity. "  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  by  inter- 
fering with  me  ?  Can't  a  gentleman — staying  in 
an  hotel — order  what  hs  likes  ?  I — I  resent  your 
fir/* 


The  End  of  It.  47 

"  Meredith  !     Meredith !     Roger  !  " 

"  Do  you  want  to  borrow  money  of  me  ?  " 
Meredith  demanded.  "  Landlord  !  Landlord  !  " 

The  landlord  came  hastily  across  the  "house 
•lace."  "  What  is  the  matter  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  matter  is  this — counterjumper  is  inter- 
ring with  me.  Put  him  out.  Do  you  hear  ? 
*ut  him  out.  Send  me  some  more  whisky." 

Dick  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned 
way. 

"  Am  I  to  give  him  more  whisky  ?  "  said  the 
indlord. 

"  Well,  there's  no  keeping  him  off  it  till  he 
;ets  to  a  certain  point,  and  then  it  will  cure  itself, 
iut  for  God's  sake  water  it." 

"  Oh,  I'll  water  it,"  said  the  landlord.  "  But 
ou  know  the  score  is  running  up  pretty  much." 

"  Oh,  I'll  come  into  the  bar  and  settle  the 
core.  I'll  pay  up  to  to-night,  and  then  you  can 
nake  me  out  a  fresh  bill  in  a  day  or  two's  time." 

Thus  authorized,  the  Chinese  boy  carried  yet 
nother  bottle  of  rye  whisky,  or  what  purported 
o  be  rye  whisky,  to  Roger  Meredith. 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  Dick  to  the  landlord, 
:  that  he'll  go  on  very  much  longer.  When  he 
;ets  to  this  stage  of  talking  utter  rot  he  always 
ollapscs  a  bit,  and  then  he's  in  for  a  good  howl 
nd  is  amenable  enough.  If  I  could  give  him  a 
trong  opiate  now  I  should  be  glad." 


48       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

<f  Have  you  got  anything  with  you  ?  "  said  the 
landlord. 

u  No,  I  haven't.  I  suppose  I  could  get  some- 
thing at  the  chemist's.  Is  there  a  chemist's  store 
in  the  street  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  there's  a  chemist's  store,  and  a  very 
good  one.  There's  almost  anything." 

"  Then  I'll  go  down  and  get  a  good  dose  of 
the  stuff  that  I  usually  give  him.  Now,  landlord, 
that  settles  both  accounts  right  up  to  to-night — 
doesn't  it  ? " 

"  Yes,  it  does  that  same,  sir.  Very  much 
obliged  to  you.  You  see,  when  a  man  has  such 
a  vast  quantity  of  stuff  he  might  repudiate  it  when 
he  comes  to." 

"  Oh,  he  wouldn't  do  that ;  he  isn't  that  sort 
at  all.  Now  I'll  be  off  down  the  street." 

He  left  the  hotel,  and  went  at  a  brisk  pace  down 
the  steep  village  street — for  although  they  called 
it  a  town,  Midas  Creek  was  no  larger  than  we  at 
home  would  call  a  village.  About  half-way  down 
the  street  he  came  to  the  store  of  which  the  land- 
lord had  told  him,  and  there  purchased  a  generous 
sleeping  draught.  As  he  came  hurriedly  out  of 
the  store  he  cannoned  against  a  man  passing  by. 

"  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Dick. 

"  Don't  mention  it,  stranger  !  "  said  the  other. 
"It  was  an  accident.  Am  I  going  right  for  Rut- 
ter's  Hotel?" 


The   End   of  It.  49 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  back  there.  We  can  go  up 
together  if  you  like." 

"Why,  certainly.  I'll  be  glad  of  your  com- 
pany. It  seems  durned  queer  for  the  hotel  to  be 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  cars." 

"It  is  queer,"  said  Dick.  "  However,  there 
it  is.  I  suppose  Rutter  took  it  as  he  found  it." 

"  Is  it  a  decent  place  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  Well,  oddly  enough,  though  I  know  this  part 
of  the  country  well,  I  have  never  been  in  Midas 
Creek  before,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I've  got  a 
pretty  important  business  to  come  about  now  that 
I  have  come." 

"  Have  you  ? "  said  Dick.  "  Well,  it's  good 
to  hear  of  important  business.  I  always  like  to 
do  so.  It  isn't  a  bad  little  place,  but,  I  must  say, 
I  would  rather  be  farther  up  myself." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger,  "  there's  all  sorts  of 
temptations  in  a  town  that  you  don't  get  on  the 
ranches." 

"  That's  the  hotel,"  said  Dick,  as  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  lights  of  Rutter's. 

"  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it  ?  "  said  the  stranger.  "  It 
looks  an  English  enough  billet." 

"  Oh,  it's  English  enough,"  said  Dick.  "  He 
does  it  very  well  as  an  Englishman." 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  do  it  very  well  in  a  small  way, 
but  if  you  want  to  run  a  big  hotel,  you  must  get 
4 


5°       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

a  Yankee  to  do  it ;  but  for  this  sort  of  little  home-by- 
the-wayside  business,  Britishers  do  well  enough." 

As  they  turned  into  the  hotel,  Dick  piloted  his 
new  friend  to  the  bar,  where  the  landlord  was 
generally  to  be  found. 

"  Here's  a  new  guest  for  you,  landlord,"  he 
said,  cheerily.  He  felt,  somehow,  with  that  com- 
fortable sleeping  draught  in  his  pocket,  that  his 
troubles  with  Meredith  were  fast  coming  to  a 
close  ;  indeed,  he  little  thought  how  fast. 

The  landlord  came  out  of  the  bar  and  greeted 
the  stranger  with  his  usual  cordial  geniality,  and 
showed  him  the  door  into  the  "  house  place." 
As  he  crossed  the  large  room,  the  stranger  turned 
with  an  astonished  air  to  Dick. 

"  Why,  said  he,  "  that's  Meredith  !  I  haven't 
seen  him  for  years  and  years  and  years.  He's  at 
his  old  game  !  " 

"  He's  been  on  the  drink  for  several  days," 
said  Dick  ;  "  drinking — hard  drinking  ;  raw — 
except  when  the  landlord  doctored  it." 

"  Ah !  I  shouldn't  have  thought  that  he  would 
have  lasted  so  long,  though  he  had  a  constitution 
of  iron.  I've  known  him  for  years.  He's  a 
brute  ;  an  unmitigated  brute.  What  a  stroke  of 
bad  luck  for  a  decent  man  like  Rutter  to  have 
Meredith  pitch  upon  his  place  as  a  likely  spot 
for  a  booze.  Yes,  I  call  that  a  stroke  of  down- 
right bad  luck," 


The   End  of  It.  5' 

"  It's  bad  luck  for  everybody  where  drink  is 
concerned,"  said  Dick.  "  The  landlord  makes 
out  of  drink,  but  he  has  had  enough  of  it,  and 
more  than  enough  of  it." 

As  the  words  left  Dick's  lips  Meredith  lunged 
out  of  his  chair  on  to  his  feet,  wheeled  round, 
ind  saw  the  two  men  crossing  the  room  together. 
As  his  eyes  fell  upon  Dick  his  whole  person 
seemed  to  be  transformed  ;  his  face  fairly  lighted 
up  with  demoniacal  rage.  He  was  no  longer 
shrunken  and  enfeebled,  his  splendid  frame  seemed 
to  be  swollen  with  fury  to  even  more  than  its 
normal  size. 

"  Is  it  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  Is  it  you  ?  I've 
been  looking  for  you  these  nine  years.  You 
devil  !  So  you  have  come  in  my  path  at  last !  " 

"  Why,  what  on  earth  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 
isked  Dick. 

"  What  am  I  talking  about  ?  You  dare  to 
bandy  words  with  me  ?  I've  prayed  every  time 
I  thought  of  you,  for  nine  years  past,  that  you 
might  be  delivered  up  into  my  hands,  and  now — 
now  I've  got  you,  and  there's  no  escape  for 
you  !  " 

"  Don't  talk  rot !  "  said  Dick. 

"  Rot  ?  Is  it  rot  ?  Yes — it's  rot  that  you'll 
be  presently.  You've  known  all  along  that  when 
I  got  you,  when  I  once  got  my  fingers  on  you, 
I'd  shake  the  life  out  of  you  like  a  dog  !  " 


52      A     Matter  of  Sentiment. 

He  made  a  rush  forward  to  seize  Dick  by  the 
throat.  Dick  parried  the  blow  and  stepped 
quickly  to  one  side.  The  next  moment  Mere- 
dith had  whipped  his  revolver  out  of  his  hip 
pocket. 

"  Look  out !  He's  got  a  six-shooter  !  "  cried 
the  Yankee. 

Up  went  Dick's  arm  again  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
knock  the  weapon  out  of  Meredith's  hand.  The 
next  moment  the  two  men  had  closed  together, 
Knowing  Meredith  as  well  as  he  did,  Dick  had  3 
fair  idea  of  what  would  be  his  method,  and  every 
moment  he  expected  to  feel  the  muzzle  of  the 
revolver  against  his  temple.  In  a  flash  he  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  would  sell  his  life  dearly. 
If  only  he  could  knock  the  weapon  out  of  Mere- 
dith's hand,  he  felt  that  he  would  not  have  the 
strength  to  continue  the  struggle  very  long. 

But,  heavens,  how  strong  he  was  !  He  tried 
time  and  again  to  overthrow  him,  but  although 
Meredith  had  drunk  himself  into  a  frenzy  during 
the  past  few  days,  Dick  had  no  more  power  to 
move  him  than  he  would  have  had  to  move  the 
side  of  a  house.  The  great  muscles  stood  out 
upon  his  legs  like  knots  of  steel  ;  the  grip  upon  his 
right  shoulder  made  Dick  sick  with  pain.  His 
left  hand  was  all  that  he  really  had  to  defend  him- 
self with  ;  and  at  last,  when  he  felt  his  strength 
going,  when  he  felt  Meredith's  hot  breath  upon 


The   End  of  It.  53 

his  face,  and  then  the  touch  of  the  cold  steel 
upon  his  left  cheek,  he  flung  up  his  arm  in  a  last 
desperate  effort  to  protect  himself.  There  was  a 
puff  of  smoke  and  the  sharp  crack  of  a  pistol  shot, 
a  further  onslaught  from  Meredith,  and  then,  as 
a  last  hope,  Dick  contrived  to  wrench  his  right 
arm  free,  and  get  at  his  own  revolver. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  moment.  A  fresh  rush 
from  Meredith,  the  crack  of  Dick's  revolver,  a 
scream,  and  then  the  giant  hands  relaxed  their 
hold,  and  Meredith  tumbled  to  the  ground  with  a 
sickening  thud,  and  lay  there  absolutely  motion- 
less. 


54       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 


CHAPTER  V. 

GOOD    ADVICE. 

As  Meredith  fell  to  the  fioor,  the  hubbub  of 
voices  which  had  accompanied  the  struggle  died 
away  into  silence. 

"  He's  done  for,"  said  the  landlord,  kneeling 
down  beside  the  huge  prostrate  form. 

Dick  Vincent  stood  by,  his  nerveless  hands  still 
holding  his  revolver,  his  face  filled  with  horror 
and  dismay.  "  You  don't  mean  that  he  is — dead  ?  " 
he  burst  out. 

"I  do ;  dead  as  a  door-nail,"  answered  the 
landlord. 

"  Did  I  do  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  got  done.  There's  little  blame  at- 
tached to  any  one." 

"  You  don't  think  it  was  his  revolver  that  went 
off?  " 

"  We  can  soon  settle  that  point,"  said  the  man 
who  had  walked  up  the  street  with  Dick.  "  Let's 
have  a  look  at  your  play-toy.  Ah,  one  shot  mis- 
sing. Was  it  fully  loaded  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was." 


Good   Advice.  55 

There  was  no  thought  in  Dick's  mind  of  keep- 
ing any  of  the  truth  back. 

"  Let's  look  at  Meredith's  six-shooter,  land- 
lord, the  stranger  went  on. 

"  Meredith  was  his  name  ?  "  said  the  landlord, 
gently  disengaging  the  weapon  from  Meredith's 
nerveless  ringers. 

"  Yes,  Meredith.  I've  not  seen  him  for  years. 
Ah,  you  see  !  Only  one  shot.  That  was  the 
shot  he  fired  when  you  threw  his  arm  up.  Well, 
stranger,  I  am  afraid  you  must  put  him  down  to 
your  account.  You  have  done  many  a  worse 
deed  in  your  life  than  putting  that  chapout  of 
the  road." 

"  I  didn't  wilfully  put  him  out  of  the  road," 
said  Vincent.  "  It  was  his  life  or  mine." 

"  I  don't  know  you,  sir,  but  I'll  lay  long  odds 
that  yours  was  the  better  life  of  the  two.  It 
couldn't  be  worse  than  his,  anyhow.  And  what- 
ever country  you  live  in,  there's  one  law  that  al- 
ways holds  good :  when  your  life's  threatened, 
sell  it  as  dear  as  you  can.  The  best  thing  you 
can  do  is  to  clear  out." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  do  that,"  said  Dick.  "  I  must 
stay  and  see  the  inquiry  through." 

"  Well,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I  advise  you  to 
clear  out.  It  will  be  the  easiest  way  for  you  and 
for  everybody  concerned.  You  don't  know  any- 
body here,  do  you  ? " 


56       A   Matter   of  Sentiment. 

"  Not  a  soul ! "  said  Dick. 

"  Then  clear  out." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on  the  land- 
lord, with  the  help  of  several  men,  was  busy  re- 
moving the  inert  mass  that  had  once  been  Roger 
Meredith  into  an  outer  chamber.  It  was  a  room 
next  to  the  stables  that  had  been  used  for  such  a 
purpose  before  ;  in  fact,  they  called  it  the  "  in- 
quest room." 

"  I  suppose  he  is  really  dead  ? "  said  one  of 
the  men,  when  they  had  lifted  him  on  to  the  great 
table  where  accidents  usually  were  deposited. 

"  Dead  as  a  door-nail ! "  answered  the  land- 
lord ;  "  and  there's  no  chance  of  getting  a  doctor 
to  him  either.  Jericho  has  gone  off  to  Barnes 
Drift — to  attend  to  Barnes's  wife.  Not  the  slight- 
est chance  of  getting  at  him  under  several  hours. 
Besides,  he  is  dead.  Look  at  him." 

The  stranger  who  had  foregathered  with  Dick 
came  in  just  in  time  to  hear  the  landlord's  words. 

"  Well,  I'm  a  doctor  myself — at  least,  I  was 
once,"  he  remarked.  "  The  man's  dead  enough, 
but  if  you  have  any  doubt  I'll  make  a  regular  ex- 
amination." 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  would  be  as  well,"  said  the 
landlord.  "  We  haven't  a  chance  of  getting  Jer- 
icho here  for  some  hours.  It  would  be  a  satisfac- 
tion to  the  young  gentleman  that  settled  his  busi- 
ness for  him." 


Good  Advice.  57 

"  It  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  everybody  who 
has  ever  had  the  pleasure — or  the  misfortune — to 
come  across  Meredith,"  said  the  stranger,  with 
uncompromising  directness. 

"  Do  you  speak  intimately  of  him  ?  "  said  the 
landlord.  "  Did  you  know  him  well  ?  " 

"  I  have  known  him  for  years — at  least,  I  knew 
him  for  years,  a  long  time  ago.  I  haven't  seen 
him  for  many  a  long  day  ;  didn't  want." 

"  Did  he  always  drink  ?  " 

"  Always.  Always  drunk,  always  quarrelsome, 
always  getting  the  horrors  badly.  I've  seen  him 
kill  two  men  when  he  was  on  the  drink.  He  was  a 
lucky  chap,  too.  He  always  slipped  out  of  every- 
thing. However,  he's  met  his  match  at  last,  and 
a  very  good  job  for  everybody  concerned.  If  I 
were  you,  landlord,  I  should  make  as  little  fuss  as 
I  could.  So  far  as  I  ever  knew,  Meredith  was  a 
man  without  a  friend.  Never  met  anybody  that 
didn't  execrate  him.  He  was  a  coward  and  a 
bully  ;  an  out-and-out  blackguard  that  was  a  det- 
riment to  any  part  of  the  world  that  he  happened 
to  be  in." 

At  this  point  Dick,  who  had  followed  the  group 
of  men,  by  a  sort  of  natural  instinct  that  he  would 
not  seem  to  be  trying  to  sneak  out  of  the  respon- 
sibility of  what  he  had  done,  opened  his  mouth 
to  speak.  The  stranger  stopped  him. 

"  Now,  listen  to  me !  "  he  said.     "  I  never  saw 


58       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

you  until  to-day ;  I  don't  know  your  name,  or 
where  you  come  from  ;  I  don't  want  to  know 
it." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  none  of  us  know  it,"  said 
the  landlord. 

"  Then  don't  ask  it.  As  for  you,  stranger,  if 
you  know  anything  about  Meredith,  keep  it  dark. 
The  man's  dead ;  he  was  killed  in  a  fair  fight — at 
least,  he  was  killed  in  a  fight  that  was  obviously 
unfair  to  you,  for  you  are  half  his  size.  Anyway, 
fair  or  unfair,  the  man's  dead,  and  nothing  will 
bring  him  back  to  life  again.  Take  my  advice, 
and  clear  out  of  this.  You  have  nothing  to  gain 
by  remaining ;  you  have  nothing  to  gain  by 
facing  it  out.  Don't  tell  your  name,  or  where 
you  have  come  from,  or  anything  about  yourself. 
Clear  out!" 

By  this  time  the  other  men,  who  were  well  used 
to  little  accidents  of  the  sort,  had  all  trooped  away 
out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  landlord,  Dick  and 
the  stranger  alone  with  the  dead  man.  The  an- 
nouncement that  he  was  a  doctor,  or,  as  he  had 
put  it,  "  by  way  of  being  a  doctor,"  had  helped 
to  this  end.  In  spite  of  the  fearful  object  lesson 
which  they  had  helped  to  remove,  every  man  of 
them  felt  in  immediate  need  of  a  drink. 

As  the  quick,  decided  words  of  advice  left  the 
stranger's  lips,  Dick  stood  irresolute,  looking  first 
upon  the  landlord,  and  then  upon  his  new  friend. 


Good   Advice.  59 

"  It  isn't  like  me  to  turn  my  back  on  a  danger," 
he  said  at  last. 

"  Oh,  turning  your  back  on  a  danger — fiddle  ! 
It  isn't  that  at  all.  There's  nothing  to  be  gained 
by  facing  it  out." 

"  Look  here  ! "  said  the  landlord,  taking  him 
by  the  arm  and  drawing  him  away  towards  the 
door.  "  The  last  time  a  man  was  shot  here  the 
Sheriff  swore  that  he  would  make  an  example  of 
the  next  one.  You  are  the  next  one.  Do  you 
want  to  be  made  an  example  of?  If  you  make  a 
bolt  for  it  in  the  confusion  of  the  moment — well, 
nobody  can  blame  any  of  us.  I  like  you  ;  you 
squared  up  his  drinks  without  a  word,  and  they 
were  heavy  enough  to  make  most  people  open 
their  eyes  and  sit  up.  I'd  like  to  see  you  out  of 
this.  Take  my  advice  ;  take  that  lantern-jawed 
chap's  advice.  Git !  " 

The  sound  commonsense  of  this  argument  ap- 
pealed to  Dick  with  irresistible  force.  After  all, 
he  had  committed  no  sin.  The  whole  affair  had 
been  more  or  less  an  accident,  entirely  an  accident 
so  far  as  he  had  been  concerned.  It  had  been  a 
question  of  his  life  or  Meredith's.  He  had  hon- 
estly done  his  best  to  keep  Meredith  straight — in- 
deed, he  had  kept  Meredith  straight  for  years  on 
end ;  but  this  time  he  had  broken  out  beyond  all 
power  of  any  ordinary  man  to  control.  And, 
after  all,  why,  having  killed  the  man,  should  he 


6o       A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

remain  to  be  sacrificed,  from  a  false  sense  of  hon- 
or ?  If  he  were  hanged  or  lynched  twenty  times 
over,  that  would  not  bring  Meredith  back  to  life 
again  ;  and  if  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  remain- 
ing, why  should  he  not  go  ? " 

"  You  really  think  I  had  better  go  ?  "  he  said, 
looking  the  man  fair  and  square  in  the  eyes. 

"  Yes,  I  really  do.  You  have  no  very  great 
amount  of  time  to  lose.  I  must  send  down  for 
the  Sheriff — I  know  he  happens  to  be  away,  but 
I  must  send  for  him  all  the  same — and  the  mo- 
ment I  have  done  so,  I  must  forbid  anybody  to 
leave  the  house.  There's  a  train,"  taking  out 
his  watch  and  looking  at  it,  "  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  from  now.  Don't  say  a  word  to  anybody. 
Take  your  bag,  for  that  might  lead  to  identifica- 
tion, and  go." 

"  Thank  you,  landlord,  I  will.  I  see  that 
you  are  perfectly  right,  and  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you." 

He  turned  back  to  the  stranger,  who  was  stand- 
ing looking  down  on  Meredith's  dead  face. 
"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  know  your  name  any 
more  than  you  know  mine,  but  I  am  infinitely 

obliged    to  you    for  the   advice   you   have  given 

» 
me. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  the  stranger,  "  that  it  is  the 
wisest  course  for  you  to  take.  Look  here  !  I 
like  you ;  I  like  your  nice  and  generous  English 


Good  Advice.  6l 

face.  You  will  naturally  feel  some  anxiety  about 
the  outcome  of  all  this  ;  here's  my  name  and  my 
home  address.  Write  to  me  in  a  week's  time, 
and  I'll  tell  you  how  things  have  gone.  I'll  send 
you  the  local  paper ;  there's  sure  to  be  an  account  in 
it.  Then  you  can  possess  your  soul  in  peace,  and 
know  whether  it  is  safe  to  come  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  this  or  not." 

"  Thank  you  a  dozen  times,"  said  Dick 
"  You  are  a  good  friend,  if  ever  a  man  had  one. 
Perhaps  some  day  I  may  be  able  to  repay  the 
genuine  friendship  you  have  shown  me  to-day." 

"  Don't  speak  of  it,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I 
am  only  too  glad  to  have  been  able  to  do  it.  A 
man  might  be  forgiven  for  not  keeping  his  head 
cool  under  such  circumstances  as  these.  By  the 
way,  you  needn't  tell  me  your  name  when  you 
write  to  me  ;  it  isn't  in  the  least  necessary.  Call 
yourself  Robert  Martin  ;  that  name  is  as  good  a 
name  as  any  other,  and  I  can  as  easily  write  to 
Robert  Martin  at  some  post-office  as  I  can  write 
to  you  in  your  own  name  and  to  your  home, 
wherever  it  is." 

Dick  put  out  his  hand  and  took  the  stranger's 
in  a  mighty  grip.  "  God  bless  you  !  "  he  said. 
"  You  have  done  me  a  good  turn,  and  you  have 
done  it  in  a  gentlemanly  way.  I  can't  thank  you 
any  better  than  I  have  tried  to  do  already. 
Good-by  ! " 


62         A  Matter  of  Sentiment, 

"  Good-by  !  "  said  the  stranger. 

Then  Dick  Vincent  turned  to  take  a  last  fare- 
well of  the  man  who  had  been  his  comrade  and 
chum  for  more  than  seven  years.  "  Old  fellow," 
he  said,  "  I  little  thought  ever  to  take  a  man's 
life,  let  alone  yours.  If  you  are  up  there,  or 
anywhere  about,  you'll  know  that  I  didn't  mean 
it."  He  bent  down  and  touched  the  nerveless 
hand.  "  Good-by,  old  chap,"  he  whispered, 
"  good-by  !  " 

Then,  without  another  word,  he  turned  and 
went  quickly  to  his  room  in  search  of  the  small 
bag  which  was  all  that  he  had  taken  to  the  hotel 
with  him.  It  merely  contained  a  change  of  cloth- 
ing and  his  necessary  toilet  requisites.  Clothes 
were  not  so  plentiful  at  Santa  Clara  as  to  be 
worth  carrying  about  from  place  to  place. 

Meredith's  second  coat  and  waistcoat  were  ly- 
ing on  his  bed.  As  quick  as  thought  Dick  Vin- 
cent caught  up  the  waistcoat  and  thrust  his  hand 
into  the  inner  pocket.  As  he  expected,  in  his 
unhinged  state  of  mind,  Meredith,  in  changing 
his  clothes,  had  forgotten  to  transfer  the  portrait 
of  his  wife  from  one  pocket  to  the  other.  The 
little  case  was  there,  and  Dick  thrust  it  into  his 
own  breast  pocket.  Then  he  glanced  round  the 
room  to  see  that  there  was  nothing  of  his  that  he 
had  left  behind.  No,  not  a  thing  ;  all  that  there 
was  belonged  to  Meredith. 


Good  Advice.  63 

He  opened  the  door  quietly,  looked  out  and 
saw  that  the  coast  was  clear,  ran  down  the  stairs, 
ind  passing  the  door  of  the  "  house  place  "  on 
tiptoe,  he  noiselessly  left  the  house  and  plunged 
into  the  fast  gathering  gloom  of  evening.  He 
glanced  at  his  watch  as  he  passed  the  first  light  in 
the  street.  Ten  minutes  to  catch  the  train  ; 
imple  time,  provided  that  nobody  came  to  stop 
him.  He  swung  steadily  along,  down  the  narrow, 
irregular  street,  past  the  different  stores  with  their 
flaring  lights,  round  the  corner,  up  the  narrow 
dark  lane,  and  under  the  rough  portico  of  the 
railway  depot. 

A  ticket  for  the  next  station  was  soon  taken  ; 
be  had  thought  it  out  while  coming  down  the 
road,  and  if  inquiries  were  made  for  him  it  would 
be  just  as  well  not  to  leave  behind  evidence  that 
be  was  going  straight  for  New  York.  He  saw  with 
satisfaction  as  he  passed  on  to  the  miserable  and 
ill-lighted  platform  that  there  were  a  good  many 
passengers  of  about  his  own  age  and  appearance. 

Then  a  bright  thought  struck  him.  He 
dipped  into  his  great  traveling  ulster,  turned  up 
the  collar,  pulled  his  cap  well  over  his  eyes,  and 
went  back  to  the  ticket  office.  There  he  took  a 
ticket  for  New  York.  He  felt  sure  that  the 
:lerk  had  not  recognized  him  as  the  man  who  had 
taken  a  ticket  for  the  next  station  a  few  minutes 
previously. 


64       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

Then  the  train  came  majestically  in,  some  pas- 
sengers alighted,  and  the  waiting  ones  boarded  the 
cars,  the  whistle  sounded,  and  Dick  Vincent  had 
begun  the  second  stage  of  his  flight. 


Waiting.  65 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WAITING. 

AT  first  when  Dick  Vincent  found  himself 
speeding  away  as  fast  as  the  cars  could  take  him 
from  Midas  Creek,  his  only  feeling  was  one  of  re- 
gret that  he  had  not  stayed  behind  to  face  out 
what  he  had  done. 

"  Hang  it  all  !  "  his  thoughts  ran,  "  this  is 
coward's  work — to  run  away.  I  never  turned  my 
back  on  a  scrape  in  my  life  ;  in  fact,  my  scrapes 
up  to  now  have  been  few  and  far  between.  It  is 
true  I  shot  the  poor  dear  old  fellow,  but  he  wasn't 
himself  at  the  time,  and  if  I  hadn't  shot  him,  he 
would  have  shot  me.  Then,  perhaps,  he  would 
have  run  amok  and  taken  half-a-dozen  other 
lives.  I  had  to  do  it.  I'd  far  rather  have  faced 
it  out.  I  hate  this  fugitive  kind  of  business,  and 
it  will  look  awfully  bad,  and  will  go  hard  against 
me  if  they  take  the  trouble  to  trace  me  out  and 
follow  me  up.  I've  a  good  mind  to  go  back. 
Yes,  I'll  get  off  at  the  next  stopping-place,  and 
I'll  take  the  first  train  back  again." 
5 


66       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  he  traveled  for  some 
miles.  Then  a  colored  gentleman  came  round 
and  informed  him  that  supper  was  ready.  Dick 
thought  he  might  as  well  have  supper,  because 
under  any  circumstances  it  was  no  use  going  with- 
out food,  and  he  had,  of  course,  had  no  supper 
at  the  hotel.  The  exhaustion  and  excitement 
through  which  he  had  passed,  and  the  awful  re- 
vulsion of  feeling  which  had  overcome  him  on 
finding  that  he  had  taken  the  life  of  his  greatest 
friend,  had  all  combined  to  produce  in  him  a  most 
frantic  hunger.  So  he  made  his  way  to  the 
dining  car,  and  put  away  as  good  a  supper  as  any 
man  ever  sat  down  to  ;  and  when  supper  was 
over  and  he  went  off  for  a  smoke,  his  thoughts 
naturally  reverted  to  his  scheme  for  getting  back 
again  to  Midas  Creek. 

"  It  seems  rather  a  tomfool  thing  to  do  when 
I've  got  clear  away,  and  they  do  not  know  my 
name  or  anything  about  me,"  commonsense  said 
to  him. 

"  It  seems  a  very  cowardly  thing  to  make  a 
bolt  of  it,  as  if  you  were  a  murderer,"  said  his 
sense  of  honor. 

"  Go  back  and  see  the  last  of  poor  old  Roger," 
said  sentiment. 

And  so  his  thoughts  ran — "  Pull  devil,  pull 
baker  " — until  at  last  commonsense  put  an  every- 
day suggestion  into  kis  mind. 


Waiting.  67 

"  It  shall  be  tails  I  go  back,  heads  I  go  for- 
ward !  "  he  said  to  himself. 

So  Dick  pulled  a  coin  out  of  his  pocket — a 
gold  coin,  for  luck — and  spun  it  deftly  up,  as 
high  as  the  height  of  the  car  would  permit.  He 
held  it  a  moment  between  his  palms,  before  look- 
ing to  see  how  it  had  fallen,  and  so  meet  his  fate. 
"  But  whatever  it  comes,  I'll  abide  by  it,"  he 
said.  Then  he  opened  his  hand  and  looked  at 
the  coin  as  it  lay  shining  in  the  palm  of  his  left 
hand. 

It  was  heads  ! 

So  he  must  go  forward.  He  had  promised 
himself  that  he  would  abide  by  the  throw  of  the 
coin.  Chance,  blind  chance,  had  told  him  to  go 
forward,  not  to  turn  back.  A  thought  came  to 
him  of  how  Lot's  wife  had  suffered  by  turning 
back  in  the  hour  of  danger.  And  then  a  few  lines 
of  a  poem  came  into  his  head,  for,  let  me  tell  you, 
it  was  not  very  easy  to  get  books  of  any  kind  at 
Santa  Clara,  and  many  and  many  a  winter's  night 
Dick  had  conned  over  a  little  collection  of  thumb- 
marked  and  worn  books  of  poetry  : — 

"  Let  not  him  that  putteth  his  hand  to  the  plough  look  back- 
wards ; 

Though  the  ploughshare  cut  through  the  flowers  of  life  to  its 
fountains. 

Though  it  pass  o'er  the  graves  of  the  dead  and  the  hearths  of 
the  living. 

It  is  the  will  of  the  Lord ;  and  His  mercy  endureth  for  ever ! " 


68         A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

Well,  he  had  put  his  hand  to  the  plough,  and 
it  was  no  use  looking  back.  Practically  it  had 
already  passed  over  the  "graves  of  the  dead,"  and 
it  would  rest  with  him  whether,  in  the  future,  it 
would  pass  over  the  "  hearths  of  the  living." 

He  was  very  sad,  very  dejected,  as  the  train 
whirled  him  away  from  difficulty  and  danger  into 
safety.  Self-preservation  is  the  first  instinct  of 
humanity,  but  now  that  the  excitement  was  over, 
now  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  think  over  the 
events  of  that  eventful  day,  his  thoughts  were  all 
sad.  Poor  old  Roger  !  Good  friend  and  chum  ; 
nobody's  enemy  but  his  own.  How  hard  he  had 
tried  to  keep  him  straight.  How  full  of  hope  he 
had  been,  when  they  set  out  together  from  Santa 
Clara,  that  he  would  succeed  in  his  mission  ;  that 
he  would  find  the  long-neglected  wife,  and  that 
she  would  come  back  with  him  to  enjoy  the  good 
times  that  had  set  in  for  the  owners  of  the  Cali- 
fornian  ranche. 

Well,  that  dream  was  over  and  shattered  for 
ever.  Popr  old  Roger  was  lying  in  that  outer 
room  at  the  hotel  at  Midas  Creek,  his  splendid 
strength  brought  to  an  end  by  the  hand  of  his 
own  friend.  Not  maliciously,  they  all  held  him 
free  of  blame,  Dick  thought  wretchedly.  "  After 
all,"  he  mused,  "  if  I  hadn't  done  what  I  did,  I 
should  be  lying  in  that  outer  room  instead  of  him. 
Life  is  f  Every  man  for  himself — it  must  be  so 


Waiting.  69 

— and  if  poor  old  Roger  knows,  he  will  hold  me 
as  free  of  blame  as  those  that  were  looking  on." 

And  yet — his  friend  was  gone.  The  partner- 
ship had  come  to  an  end,  a  sad,  miserable,  wretched 
end,  to  which  he  had  never  looked.  The  unex- 
pected always  happens,  and  he  had  certainly  never 
expected  such  an  end  as  this.  In  this  life  it  is 
the  one  who  stays  behind  who  thinks  the  most. 
It  is  always  so.  The  lover  who  goes  away  to  the 
other  side  of  the  world  is  more  likely  to  forget 
the  girl  he  leaves  behind  than  the  girl,  who  merely 
continues  her  ordinary  daily  round,  rendered  more 
blank  by  the  absence  of  the  loved  one,  is  likely 
to  forget  him. 

So  in  the  case  of  Dick  Vincent.  He  passed 
day  after  day  in  the  luxurious  cars,  sleeping, 
dining,  reading,  smoking,  talking,  and  with  every 
hour  that  went  by  the  horror  of  the  scene  through 
which  he  had  passed  at  Midas  Creek  seemed  to- 
fade  away.  He  was  not  callous,  far  from  it ;  but 
he  was  being  taken  swiftly  and  easily  away  into 
fresh  scenes,  and  the  change  of  life  and  movement 
round  about  him  all  tended  to  blot  out  from  his 
mind  the  first  vivid  impression  of  Roger  Mere- 
dith's tragic  death. 

So  by  the  time  he  reached  New  York  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  no  use  fretting  over 
what  was  done  and  could  not  be  undone.  It 
was  no  use  regarding  himself  as  a  murderer,  or 


7°       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

even  as  a  fugitive.  If  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  he  had  taken  the  advice  of  those  who  had 
seen  the  whole  affray  from  beginning  to  end,  and 
doubtless,  if  necessary,  they  would  back  him  up  to 
the  extent  of  owning  that  he  had  acted  by  their 
advice. 

He  determined  to  remain  a  few  days  in  New 
York  so  as  to  communicate  with  his  unknown 
friend  at  Midas  Creek.  Therefore,  as  soon  as  he 
got  settled  down  in  his  hotel,  he  wrote  a  letter  to 
the  friendly  stranger.  It  was  a  manly  letter,  tell- 
ing him  that  he  had  more  than  half  repented 
turning  his  back  on  the  scrape  in  which  he  had 
found  himself.  He  told  him  how  he  had  reasoned 
things  out  with  himself,  and  how,  finally,  he  had 
tossed  for  guidance  as  to  the  best  line  of  conduct. 
Then  he  thanked  him  for  having  so  completely 
stood  his  friend  and  begged  him  to  send  him 
the  result  of  the  inquest  to  a  certain  post-office 
in  New  York.  He  signed  the  letter,  "  Robert 
Martin." 

"  I  feel  rather  mean,"  his  thoughts  ran,  "  but 
it  was  the  chap's  own  suggestion,  after  all,  and  he 
seemed  to  have  a  long  head  on  him.  So  I  dare 
say  he  was  perfectly  right  in  his  suggestion  that  it 
is  no  use  exposing  my  own  name. 

When  his  letter  was  safely  deposited  in  the  post- 
office,  Dick  Vincent  felt  happier.  He  knew  that 
from  Valentine  Clegg — for  such  was  the  stranger's 


Waiting.  71 

name — he  would  obtain  authentic  information  as 
to  the  last  details  concerning  poor  Meredith. 
But  he  must  patiently  await  a  reply,  and,  as  all 
the  world  knows,  a  letter  cannot  go  from  New 
York  to  California  and  the  reply  cover  the  same 
distance  without  a  wearisome  wait  of  many  days. 
I  am  bound  to  say  that  the  two  weeks  which 
followed  Dick  Vincent's  arrival  in  New  York  was 
the  most  wearisome  period  that  he  had  ever  passed 
in  the  whole  of  his  life.  He  did  everything  to  oc- 
cupy himself  that  a  stranger  in  the  land  could  do. 
He  visited  the  theatres  and  other  places  of  amuse- 
ment, he  went  the  round  of  the  best  restaurants 
and  feasted  royally,  like  a  king,  but  all  the  same, 
it  was  a  miserable  hangdog  existence.  He  began 
to  understand  how  it  is  that  men  give  themselves 
up  to  justice  years  after  they  have  committed  a 
murder.  He  began  to  go  over  the  scene  again  ; 
he  began  to  fidget  and  worry  as  to  whether,  if  he 
had  done  just  the  opposite  of  what  he  had  done, 
he  would  have  exercised  a  different  influence  over 
Roger  Meredith.  He  began  to  blame  himself. 
He  could  not  sleep  at  nights  for  visions  of  Roger 
Meredith  which  visited  him.  He  was  all  right 
during  the  day-time,  he  could  occupy  himself; 
he  could  keep  that  worrying  brain  of  his  quiet  by 
giving  it  plenty  of  other  things  to  think  about ; 
but  when  it  came  to  the  lonely  watches  of  the 
night,  it  was  another  matter  altogether.  He  took 


72       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

to  going  to  the  large  public  reading  rooms,  and 
there  he  industriously  looked  over  hundreds  of 
newspapers,  but  without  finding  any  one  from  the 
district  around  Midas  Creek  which  ever  mentioned 
the  affair  he  became  haggard  and  wan  and  weary. 
And  so  the  slow  days  dragged  their  intermi- 
nable course  along,  until  at  last  he  received,  on 
application  at  the  post-office,  a  letter  addressed 
to  "  Robert  Martin."  He  took  it  from  the  clerk 
with  fingers  which  trembled  in  spite  of  his  nerve 
and  resolution.  He  didn't  open  it  until  he  had 
seated  himself  in  the  restaurant  where  he  was  go- 
ing to  eat  his  lunch  ;  then,  having  given  his  order 
for  the  meal,  he  at  last  ventured  to  open  the 
letter. 

"  Dear  Robert  Martin,"  it  began,  "  I  was  very 
pleased  to  hear  from  you,  and  to  find  by  chance 
I  had  strengthened  my  opinion  that  it  was  per- 
fectly useless  for  you  to  remain  here.  Meredith 
was  buried  in  the  little  cemetery  at  the  back  of 
the  chapel  in  Midas  Creek.  A  good  many  peo- 
ple turned  out  to  give  him  a  last  salute,  but  the 
manner  of  his  death  has  not  interested  many  peo- 
ple, as  he  was  absolutely  unknown  to  everybody 
but  myself,  and  I  had  nothing  good  to  say  about 
him.  I  privately  saw  some  of  the  jury,  and  also 
said  a  word  or  two  to  the  coroner,  with  the  result 
that  you  will  not  even  be  inquired  for. 


Waiting.  73 

"  I  hope  that  you  will  not  allow  this  wretched 
affair  to  weigh  on  your  mind,  or  in  any  way  over- 
shadow your  life.  You  looked  to  me  young, 
straight  and  honest,  and  it  would  indeed  be  a 
thousand  pities  if  your  life  were  in  any  way  spoiled 
for  a  worthless  blackguard  such  as  I  well  knew 
Meredith  to  be.  Take  my  advice,  and  for  the 
future  force  yourself  to  think  of  the  affair  as  a 
pure  accident,  which  in  truth  it  was. 

"  I  am  sending  you  by  this  mail  a  newspaper 
giving  an  account  of  the  inquest.  I  can  add  that 
the  verdict  gave  universal  satisfaction.  The  ways 
of  juries  are  very  wonderful  in  all  parts  of  the 
world — at  least,  that  has  been  my  experience,  and 
I  have  lived  in  almost  all  countries. 

"  With  every  good  wish,  believe  me,  cordially 
yours, 

"VALENTINE  CLEGG." 

It  was  with  a  certain  feeling  of  dismay  that 
Dick  Vincent  realised  that  he  must  go  back  to 
the  post-office  and  find  out  whether  there  was  a 
newspaper  waiting  for  him.  Perhaps  it  had  come 
by  a  later  mail. 

He  finished  his  lunch,  drank  his  black  coffee, 
and  smoked  a  cigarette  before  he  allowed  him- 
self to  think  about  going  back  to  the  post-office. 
Even  then,  although  he  had  spun  the  time  out, 
the  clerk  told  him  that  there  was  no  other  com- 


74       A   Matter   of  Sentiment. 

munication  for  him.  So  he  must  put  off  yet  an- 
other day  ;  he  must  get  through  another  evening 
and  another  night.  However,  he  filled  in  that 
afternoon  by  making  inquiries  about  his  passage 
for  Liverpool,  and  buying  some  few  necessaries 
that  he  would  require  for  the  voyage.  Then  he 
dined  and  went  off  to  a  theater,  and  after  that  he 
looked  in  at  another  restaurant  for  some  supper, 
going  to  bed  at  last  so  dogged  tired  that  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  reached  New  York,  he 
slept  a  sound,  dreamless  sleep  until  late  in  the 
morning. 

He  went  twice  to  the  post-ofBce  before  he  re- 
ceived the  paper  of  which  Valentine  Clegg  had 
spoken.  It  was  then  late  in  the  afternoon,  very 
near  to  dinner  time,  and  as  he  walked  slowly  down 
the  street  he  tore  off  the  wrapper,  being  too  im- 
patient to  wait  until  he  reached  the  restaurant 
where  he  went  to  dine. 

Yes,  here  it  was,  a  full  account  of  the  affray, 
but  so  garbled  in  the  telling  that  he,  although  the 
principal  actor  in  the  scene,  could  hardly  recognize 
it.  It  described  how  Meredith  was  an  irredeem- 
able blackguard,  well-known  to  persons  staying  in 
the  hotel,  who  had  drunk  himself  into  a  state  of 
delirium,  in  spite  of  everything  that  could  be  done 
to  stop  and  even  doctor  his  supply  of  whisky. 
Then  it  went  on  to  say  that  on  the  after- 
noon in  question  he  had  made  a  murderous  attack 


Waiting.  75 

upon  a  young  man  resident  in  the  hotel ;  that  in 
endeavoring  to  save  his  own  life  Meredith  had 
been  accidentally  shot,  and  that  in  the  opinion  of 
all  the  onlookers  there  was  not  the  slightest  blame 
to  be  attached  to  anybody  but  the  unfortunate 
man  himself. 

The  account  then  went  on  to  relate  that  the 
jury  had  unanimously  agreed  on  the  verdict  of 
"  Death  by  the  visitation  of  God,"  and  that,  when 
mildly  remonstrated  with  by  the  coroner,  had 
firmly  expressed  their  desire  that  the  verdict 
should  stand.  "  The  man  was  delirious,"  the 
foreman  of  the  jury  explained,  "  and  an  uninten- 
tional shot  put  an  end  to  his  existence  before  he 
had  time  to  murder  the  object  of  his  fury  or  other 
persons.  We  consider  his  career  was  cut  short 
by  the  visitation  of  God."  "  Gentlemen,  it  is  for 
you  to  give  what  verdict  you  think  best,"  was  the 
reply  of  the  coroner.  And  Dick  Vincent,  as  he 
folded  the  newspaper  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket, 
mentally  echoed  the  words  of  Valentine  Clegg: 
"  Truly  the  ways  of  juries  are  very  wonderful." 

So  the  chapter  had  come  to  an  end.  He  was 
safe.  Nobody  who  knew  his  name  would  con- 
nect him  in  any  way  with  the  tragic  end  of  Roger 
Meredith.  He  was  free  to  go  on  board  the  great 
liner  which  would  sail  the  following  day.  But 
before  doing  so,  he  felt  that  a  very  unpleasant 
duty  lay  before  him  ;  he  must  write  to  Santa  Clara 


76         A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

and  apprise  the  manager,  Jack  Frogg,  that  Roger 
Meredith  was  dead.  He  must  tell  him  how, 
when,  and  why  he  died,  only  suppressing  that  one 
little  fact,  that  he  had  died  by  the  hand  of  his 
greatest  friend. 


Home   Again.  77 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HOME    AGAIN. 

EVEN  after  what  he  had  learned  from  Valentine 
Clegg's  letter  and  from  the  little  journal  which 
circulated  news  in  and  around  the  neighborhood 
of  Midas  Creek,  Dick  Vincent  did  not  feel  him- 
self perfectly  free  to  leave  New  York  and  take 
the  great  steamer  which  would  land  him  once 
more  on  his  native  shores.  In  the  first  place  he 
felt  that  he  must  write  to  Jack  Frogg,  whom  he 
and  Roger  Meredith  had  left  in  charge  of  affairs 
at  Santa  Clara. 

The  letter  was  easy  enough  to  write.  He  told 
the  manager  that  he  had  just  received  news  from 
an  acquaintance  of  his  in  Midas  Creek  that  Roger 
Meredith  had  come  to  an  untimely  end.  "  He 
was,  as  you  know,  very  moody  and  gloomy  before 
we  left  home  ;  and  his  depression  seemed  to  in- 
crease until  we  got  to  Midas  Creek,  from  whence 
I  took  the  cars.  I  could  not  induce  him  to  go 
any  further  on  the  journey.  He  seems  to  have 
drunk  hard  from  that  time.  Eventually  he  com- 
pletely lost  his  head,  and  drew  his  revolver  on 


78       A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

those  who  tried  to  restrain  him,  with  the  result 
that  in  the  scrimmage  he  was  shot  dead.  I  send 
you  herewith  a  paper  which  gives  an  account  of 
the  inquest.  I  am  fearfully  cut  up  about  the 
whole  business,  but  as  I  have  got  this  far,  and 
every  arrangement  has  been  made  for  my  going 
home  for  a  few  months,  I  do  not  see  that  I  should 
do  any  good  by  coming  back  before  the  time 
originally  intended.  Let  me  have  a  wire  as  soon 
as  you  receive  this,  to  say  I  can  leave  everything 
safely  with  you.  I  shall  remain  here  until  I  hear 
from  you." 

When  the  letter  and  the  newspaper  were  safely 
despatched,  Dick  felt  more  easy  in  his  mind,  and 
he  set  himself  down  to  wait  with  what  patience 
he  could  the  arrival  of  Frogg's  telegram  confirm- 
ing the  arrangement  that  he  had  made  with  him. 
He  also  at  the  same  time  took  steps  to  provide 
himself  with  other  copies  of  the  Midas  Creek 
"  Free  Press,"  but  these  he  directed  to  be  sent  to 
an  address  in  England. 

It  was  a  weary  time  of  waiting,  but  Dick  Vin- 
cent was  an  indomitable  young  man,  who  never 
swerved  from  a  path  on  which  he  had  once  set 
his  feet.  Having  taken  up  the  burden  of  a 
secret,  he  determined  to  carry  out  any  work  which 
it  might  entail  to  the  very  end — the  bitter  end  if 
need  be  ;  and  as  communication  with  Frogg  ne- 
cessitated a  few  more  wearisome  days  to  be  spent 


Home  Again.  79 

in  New  York,  he  set  himself  to  endure  them. 
But  as  all  things,  good  and  bad  alike  come  to  an 
end  in  time,  so  did  the  time  of  Dick's  weary 
waiting  come  to  an  end  also,  and  he  one  morning 
received  over  the  telegraph  wires  a  message  direct 
from  Jack  Frogg. 

"  Grieved  at  news,"  it  said,  "  and  will  do  my 
level  best  during  your  absence.  You  know  you 
can  trust  me.  Let  me  have  English  address." 

It  was  as  Frogg  had  said  ;  Dick  knew  that  he 
could  trust  him.  He  was  a  rough,  untutored 
man,  but  honest  as  the  day.  Dick  recalled  with 
a  sigh  how  poor  Roger  had  said  as  much  when 
they  first  proposed  leaving  the  ranche  in  charge 
of  Frogg  during  their  absence.  "  And  poor  old 
Roger  knew  them  when  he  saw  'em,"  was  Dick's 
final  thought.  I'd  back  Roger's  judgment  in  the 
matter  of  a  phiz  before  anybody  I  ever  knew  in 
my  life.  Dear  old  chap !  He  had  a  good 
opinion  of  Jack,  and  Jack's  a  good  fellow  all 
round.  I'd  trust  him  with  untold  gold." 

He  therefore  wrote  again  to  Frogg,  telling  him 
that  he  was  going  to  start  the  next  day  for  Eng- 
land ;  and  he  gave  him  his  address  at  his  father's 
house.  In  concluding  the  second  letter  he  said : 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  am  going  to 
England  partly  on  business  connected  with  Mr. 
Meredith.  He  placed  some  money  in  my  hands 


8o        A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

with  instructions  as  to  its  disposition  in  England, 
and  I  should  like  to  carry  out  his  wishes  before  I 
go  into  the  question  of  his  property  and  share  of 
Santa  Clara.  Mr.  Meredith  made  his  will  just 
before  we  left  Santa  Clara ;  it  is  in  safe  keeping 
at  Freeman's  Rock.  The  final  disposition  of  his 
property  will  depend  upon  what  I  arrange  in  Eng- 
land." 

He  added  one  or  two  more  instructions  as  to 
certain  favorite  animals  on  the  ranche,  and  then 
closed  the  letter  feeling  that  he  was  really  free 
at  last.  And  the  following  day  Dick  went  on 
board  the  great  steamer  which  would  take  him 
home. 

With  the  details  of  the  voyage  we  have  noth- 
ing to  do.  With  every  mile  that  the  great  steam- 
er carried  Dick  Vincent  away  from  the  New 
World  to  the  Old,  so  did  the  tragedy  of  Roger 
Meredith's  death  fade  into  the  insignificance  of  a 
mere  incident.  Every  day  Dick  felt  more  and 
more  that  he  had  been  but  an  instrument  of  Fate  ; 
that  poor  Roger  had  to  come  to  his  end,  and  that 
he  personally  was  not  in  any  way  responsible  for 
what  had  happened.  He  regretted  him  as  keenly 
as  ever ;  for,  mind  you,  the  two  men  had  loved 
one  another  with  a  great  and  abiding  affection, 
such  as  neither  men  nor  women  often  know. 

At   times  it  made  him  feel  sick  and  cold  to 


Home   Again.  8l 

think  that  when  he  returned  to  Santa  Clara  there 
would  be  no  Roger  Meredith.  But,  on  the  whole, 
as  the  days  went  by  he  thought  about  him  less  and 
less,  and  he  accepted  the  inevitable  as  inevitable. 
So  by  the  time  the  shores  of  his  native  land  came 
into  view  he  had  ceased  to  have  any  haunting  feel- 
ing about  the  fatal  shot  which  had  brought  Mere- 
dith's turbulent  life  to  an  end.  And  there  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  have  thought  otherwise. 
He  well  knew  that  if  Roger  could  come  back  he 
would  be  the  last  person  on  earth  to  blame  him 
in  the  smallest  degree.  There  was  no  reason 
then,  why,  once  the  first  shock  was  over,  he  should 
continue  to  blame  himself. 

It  was  in  this  eminently  comfortable  frame  of 
mind  that  Dick  Vincent  once  more  found  himself 
in  his  native  country.  It  was  all  very  delightful 
to  him  ;  the  smooth  and  easy  life  which  a  man 
who  is  not  short  of  money  can  enjoy  in  old  Eng- 
land was  pleasant  and  soothing  to  him. 

From  Liverpool  he  went  to  London — where  he 
stayed  long  enough  only  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  tailor's 
and  to  lay  in  a  stock  of  accessories  to  the  mascu- 
line toilet.  Then  he  went  off,  without  further  de- 
lay, to  the  old  manor  house  where  he  had  been 
born. 

How  pleasant  it  was  to  find  himself  once  more 
in  the  old  Kentish  home  which  he  had  not  seen 
for  seven  years  !  There  was  so  much  to  do,  so 
6 


82         A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

many  people  to  see ;  early  in  the  morning  to 
walk  round  the  place,  when  the  cheery  old  squire 
had  tight  hold  of  his  arm,  while  he  pointed  out 
this  little  improvement  and  that  little  innovation  ; 
then  to  go  through  the  hothouses,  round  the 
stables,  to  speak  a  word  to  each  man  and  woman 
on  the  estate  who  had  been  there  before  he  went 
away ;  then  to  go  down  the  village  with  his  hand- 
some sisters  to  pay  a  special  visit  to  his  old  nurse, 
married  long  years  now,  but  with  ever  a  tender 
spot  in  her  heart  for  the  boy  who  was  the  pride 
of  the  Vincent  family  and  the  joy  of  every  man, 
woman  and  child  connected  with  the  Vincent  es- 
tate. Then  he  had  to  ride  over  to  Foxborough, 
where  his  eldest  sister,  who  had  during  his  absence 
been  married  to  a  neighboring  squire,  lived  and 
had  two  or  three  olive  branches,  who  bid  fair  to 
be  as  handsome  as  herself.  Dick  had  stood  god- 
father to  one  of  these,  a  young  Dick — a  sturdy 
fellow  who  rode  about  the  gardens  on  the  back 
of  a  huge  St.  Bernard,  tumbled  off  half-a-dozen 
times  a  day,  picked  himself  up,  rubbed  the  place, 
and  swore  that  he  wasn't  hurt.  You  know  the 
kind  of  child — -just  such  a  boy  as  Dick  had  been 
two-and-twenty  years  before.  Then  there  were 
long  talks  with  his  mother,  and  visits  to  pay  all 
over  the  neighborhood  ;  and  then  Dick  carried 
off  his  two  sisters  to  town  with  him,  and  as  they 
were  joined  on  all  occasions  by  the  fiance  of 


Home   Again.  83 

the  elder  one,  they  made  a  nice  little  "  parte 
carree." 

After  a  gay  week  in  town,  during  which  Dick 
spent  his  mornings  at  his  tailor's,  and  began,  in 
his  own  words,  "  to  feel  and  look  like  a  gentle- 
man once  more,"  he  went  back  to  the  old  Kent- 
ish home  again,  and  there  found  awaiting  him 
the  copies  of  the  Midas  Creek  "  Free  Press," 
which  he  had  ordered  before  he  left  New  York. 
The  sight  of  the  limp  little  newspaper  served  to 
bring  him  back  with  a  jerk  once  more  to  a  reali- 
zation of  the  duty  that  lay  before  him. 

His  letters  had  been  taken  into  his  mother's 
own  sitting-room,  which  had  always  gone  by  the 
name  of  the  "  Red  Parlor." 

"  There  are  ever  so  many  letters  for  you,  Dick," 
she  said,  as  the  four  young  people  tripped  into 
the  room,  for  Winifred's  young  man  had  slipped 
away  from  his  briefs  and  come  down  to  Holling- 
ridge  for  the  week-end.  "  But  don't  read  them 
now,"  she  said,  putting  up  a  warning  hand,  "  be- 
cause tea  will  be  here  in  a  minute,  and  cook  has 
made  you  an  immense  pile  of  pikelets.  You 
must  eat  them  while  they  are  hot,  or  I  am  sure 
she  will  break  her  heart." 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  Dick,  "  in  this  country 
one  does  not  fly  at  letters  as  one  does  on  a  Cali- 
fornian  ranche.  There  one  would  let  pikelets,  or 
muffins,  or  foie  gras,  or  an  omelet,  or  anything 


84         A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

else  in  the  eating  line  go  to  perdition  for  the  sake 
of  a  letter.  Here  one  feels  quite  different ;  and 
my  distinguished  correspondence  can  wait  most 
comfortably  until  I  have  demolished  cook's  pike- 

Jof-O    " 

JLIb. 

Winifred's  young  man  looked  up  in  alarm. 
"  Are  you  not  going  to  let  us  have  any  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Dick.  "  If  you  are 
quick — perhaps.  But  you  have  been  having 
pikelets  on  and  off  all  the  time  I  have  been  doing 
my  own  cooking  on  a  Californian  ranche." 

"  Dick,  did  you  do  all  the  cooking  ?  "  asked 
Laura. 

"  No,  not  all  the  cooking ;  we  turned  and 
turned  about." 

"  Week  in,  week  out  ?  "  asked  Winifred. 

"  No,  not  week  in,  week  out.  It  depended 
on  what  we  had  to  cook  and  on  what  work  had 
to  be  done. 

Some  things  I  could  cook  and  Meredith 
couldn't ;  some  things  he  excelled  in  that  I  was 
a  duffer  at.  And  it  was  the  same  with  work  ; 
and  between  the  two  we  made  it  fit." 

"  And  never  quarreled  ?  " 

"  I  never  quarreled  with  Meredith,"  said 
Dick,  rather  shortly. 

"  Never  in  seven  years  ? "  put  in  George 
Drummond. 

"  Never  in  seven  years.     I  never  had  a  wrong 


Home   Again.  85 

word  with  the  dear  old  chap  in  my  life,  from 
first  to  last." 

And  then  his  heart  gave  a  great  sick  throb  as 
he  remembered  the  last  scene,  when  Roger 
Meredith's  drink-maddened  eyes  had  glared  into 
his  with  murder  in  them. 

He  sat  in  his  chair  and  took  a  cup  of  tea  from 
his  mother's  hand,  stirring  it  round  and  round  to 
the  utter  neglect  of  the  tempting  pile  of  cook's 
pikelets  which  reposed  on  a  little  table  just  in 
front  of  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Dick  ?  "  said  Laura  in 
an  undertone. 

"  Nothing." 

"  You  don't  look  as  if  nothing  were  the  mat- 
ter," she  persisted. 

"  Don't  I  ?  I  hate  tc  think  about  Meredith  ; 
that's  all." 

"  You  liked  him  very  much  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  did  more  than  like  him  ;  I  am 
sure  I  did.  He  was  such  a  good  sort.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  drink,  Meredith  could  have  gone 
anywhere,  done  anything,  filled  any  place.  I 
tried  so  hard  to  keep  him  from  it,  and  to  think 
he  could  come  to  an  end  like  that — in  a  drunken 
brawl !  Ah,  I  cannot  bear  to  think  about  it." 

"  I  wouldn't  think  about  it  if  I  were  you,"  said 
Lavra,  speaking  in  a  rapid  undertone,  for  the 
others  were  all  talking  nineteen  to  the  dozen, 


86        A   Matter   of  Sentiment 

"  I  wouldn't  think  about  it,  Dick,  if  I  were  you. 
It  wasn't  as  if  you  could  help  it." 

"  No,  it  wasn't  as  if  I  could  help  it,  was  it  ? " 

"  Of  course  not.  And  if  men  do  take  to 
drink,  it  really  is  their  own  fault." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  was  his  own  fault,  poor  old 
chap.  I  can't  bear  to  think  about  him." 

"  I  wouldn't  think  about  him  if  I  were  you, 
Dick,"  she  said  tenderly,  "  that  I  wouldn't." 

All  the  same,  it  is  one  thing  to  make  up  your 
mind  that  you  will  follow  a  certain  course,  and 
it  is  another  thing  to  follow  it. 

"  Have  another  pikelet,  Dick  ? "  said  his 
mother,  handing  him  the  plate. 

"  Not  another,  thanks,  mater." 

"  Oh,  do,  dear,  or  cook  will  be  so  upset  if  she 
thinks  you  do  not  like  them.  She  will  be  sure 
to  think  there  is  something  wrong  with  the 
pikelets.  You  always  used  to  be  so  fond  of 
them." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  I  don't  feel  like  eating  to- 
day. Oh,  well,  here — I'll  take  one,"  he  said,  im- 
patiently. 

He  took  another  of  the  little  rich  cakes  and 
choked  it  down  with  an  evident  effort.  "  George," 
he  said,  handing  him  the  dish,  "  here  !  You  have 
got  a  maw  like  a  shark.  Get  ready,  and  have  a 
dozen  of  these,  there's  a  good  old  chap." 

"  So  strange,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent  to  Laura,  when 


Home   Again.  87 

the  others  had  strolled  away,  "  I  never  knew  Dick 
refuse  pikelets  in  my  life  before  !  And  he  seemed 
so  hungry  when  he  came  in  ;  he  wouldn't  even 
open  his  letters — and  they  are  not  opened  now. 
I  wonder  if  he  doesn't  feel  well.  Have  you  been 
overdoing  it  in  London  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  mother.  Something  recalled 
Mr.  Meredith  to  his  mind,  and  it  knocked  him 
over  completely.  I  don't  think  you  half  realize 
how  fond  Dick  was  of  him." 

"  No,  I  dare  say  not.  But  still,  the  poor  man 
is  dead  and  gone,  and,  after  all,  he  came  to  a  most 
disreputable  end,  and  it's  no  use  Dick  brooding 
over  it.  He  couldn't  help  it,  poor  boy,  and 
pikelets  always  were " 

"  Oh,  mother,  don't  worry  about  it.  After  all, 
it's  a  very  little  time  ago,  and  it  must  have  been 
a  dreadful  shock  to  Dick.  Hasn't  he  opened  his 
letters  ?  " 

"  No,  he  hasn't." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  wouldn't  bother  him  with  them. 
Dear  old  Dick  !  I  hate  to  think  of  him  being 
down  in  the  mouth  and  miserable." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  her  mother.  "  And  it  isn't  as 
if  he  had  come  home  for  good.  I  suppose  he's 
going  back  to  that  horrid  ranche,  where  he  never 
gets  anything  to  eat  that  is  fit  to  eat.  It  does 
seem  hard  that  he  can't  enjoy  good  things  while 
he  has  the  chance  of  them." 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Don't  worry,  mother,"  said  Laura,  "  don't 
worry.  Leave  Dick  to  get  over  it  and  live  his 
own  life." 

"  But  he's  never  even  opened  his  letters !  " 
said  Mrs.  Vincent,  vexedly. 


A  Spell   of  Family   Life. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A    SPELL    OF    FAMILY    LIEE. 

"  I  WISH,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  half-an-hour 
later,  when  Dick  had  lounged  into  the  "  Red 
Parlor "  again,  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  let  your 
mind  dwell  on  that  poor  fellow,  Dick." 

"  What  poor  fellow  ?  "  said  Dick. 

"  The  poor  fellow  that  was  killed,"  said  Mrs. 
Vincent. 

"  Oh,  you  mean  Meredith  ?  Well,  mother,  I 
can't  help  thinking  about  him  sometimes,  and 
when  anything  reminds  me  of  him,  I  can't  help 
getting  a  fit  of  the  blues.  It's  all  right.  I  shall 
get  over  it  after  a  bit.  Don't  worry  about  it." 

"  I  can't  help  worrying,  my  dear  boy,  when  I 
see  you  miserable,  and  you  don't  eat,  and  all  those 
good  pikelets  wasted." 

"  No,  not  wasted,  for  Drummond  had  a  thun- 
dering good  feed  of  them." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  George  comes  contin- 
ually ;  and  George  is  never  out  of  the  road  of 
English  cooking.  I  don't  put  myself  out  about 
George,  I  can  assure  you." 


A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  I  dare  say  not.  But  cook  won't  know 
whether  George  or  I  ate  this  particular  lot  of 
pikelets." 

"  You  never  opened  your  letters,"  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent went  on. 

"  By  Jove  !  No  more  I  did.  Really,  mother, 
I  beg  your  pardon.  You  must  forgive  me  this 
once." 

"  Forgive  you  ?  Dear  boy,  you  have  come 
home  to  enjoy  yourself.  All  that  I  am  anxious 
for  is  that  you  shall  have  a  really  good  time.  It 
isn't  a  question  of  forgiveness.  How  ridiculous  ! 
Well,  here  are  your  letters.  I'm  sure  I  do  hope 
there  won't  be  anything  disagreeable  in  them." 

"  Not  at  all  likely,"  said  Dick,  easily. 

There  was  indeed  a  goodly  batch  of  correspon- 
dence— bills,  letters,  invitations,  and  communica- 
tions on  business  pure  and  simple — but  Dick  at 
last  got  through  them  all,  and  there  was  only  a 
bundle  of  newspapers  to  be  opened.  This  bundle 
contained  the  copies  of  the  Midas  Creek  "  Free 
Press."  He  tore  off  the  wrapper  with  a  sick 
throb  at  his  heart ;  he  had  already  seen  a  copy 
of  the  paper.  "  Here,  mother,"  he  said,  when 
he  had  turned  to  the  place  where  he  knew  the 
paragraph  would  be,  "  there's  the  account  of  poor 
old  Roger's  death.  It  was  a  hideous  business." 

o 

Mrs.  Vincent  took  the  paper  from  his  hand 
with  a  feeling  of  vexation  in  her  inmost  soul,  just 


A   Spell   of  Family   Life.       9* 

glanced  over  the  paragraph,  and  put  the  paper 
down  on  the  table  beside  her.  "  My  dear  Dick," 
she  said,  "  if  a  man  could  drink  like  that,  drink 
himself  mad,  I  really  don't  think  he  could  be 
much  loss  to  anybody.  And  after  you  had  kept 
him  straight  for  years,  to  be  tempted  the  moment 
you  turned  your  back " 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  Dick,  "  we  never  know, 
any  of  us,  what  we  may  do  until  we  are  tempted. 
Poor  old  Roger  had  been  as  straight  as  a  die  for 
over  two  years.  Don't  let  yourself  think  of  him 
as  a  besotted  beast  that  had  no  good  in  him.  He 
was  the  kindest,  gentlest,  best  fellow  that  ever 
lived.  He  took  me  up  when  I  was  a  mere  ten- 
derfoot— a  youngster — and  he  stuck  to  me  through 
thick  and  thin  right  down  to  the  very  last.  I  be- 
lieve it  was  only  the  fact  of  my  coming  away  that 
made  him  take  to  the  drink  at  all. 

"  Then  why  did  you  go  away,  Dick  ?  " 

"  Well,  for  one  thing  I  had  made  every  ar- 
rangement ;  I  wanted  to  come  home.  I  thought 
you  wanted  to  see  me." 

"  Of  course,  we  did." 

"  I  begged  him  to  come." 

"  Why  didn't  he  come  ?  " 

"  Well,  mother,  I  can  tell  you,  but  keep  it  to 
yourself  until  I  have  found  out  all  there  is  to 
know.  Meredith  was  married." 

"  Married  ?     Where  was  his  wife  ?  " 


92         A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  That's  what  we  don't  know.  He  didn't 
know  ;  he  wanted  me  to  find  out  whether  she  was 
alive  or  not ;  whether  there  was  any  chance  of 
her  coming  out  to  him." 

"  He  was  fond  of  her  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  always  had  been.  It  was  only  the 
demon  of  drink  that  ever  seems  to  have  caused 
them  any  trouble  at  all." 

"  But  that  needn't  have  prevented  his  coming 
to  England." 

"  Well,  it  needn't ;  I  did  my  best  to  persuade 
him.  The  truth  was  he  had  got  it  into  his  head 
that  she  might  have  married  again  ;  and  if  she 
had  he  didn't  want  to  have  her  disturbed.  He 
knew  he  had  been  a  failure  as  her  husband,  and  if 
she  had  found  another  he  would  have  stood  aside 
in  silence  and  remained  in  America  all  the  rest  of 
his  life." 

"  There  was  nobility  in  him,"  said  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent. 

"  Nobility  in  him  !  "  echoed  Jack.  "  I  couldn't 
make  you  or  anybody  else  understand,  unless 
they  had  known  him,  that  in  spite  of  the  drink 
Meredith  was  all  nobility.  I  don't  believe  I  shall 
find  her  married ;  I  believe  if  he  had  lived  she 
would  have  gone  out  there  and  been  as  happy  as  a 
queen  for  the  rest  of  the  chapter.  It's  partly 
that  that  makes  me  so  sad  when  I  think  all 
about  it  all.  But  there — I  didn't  come  home 


A   Spell   of  Family   Life.       93 

to  worry  you,  mother;  I  won't  talk  about  it 
again." 

"  And  you  want  to  discover  her  ?  " 

"  I've  got  to  discover  her,"  said  Dick.  "  I've 
got  a  large  sum  of  money  to  hand  over  to  her; 
and  now,  if  I  can  find  her  or  the  child  alive,  the 
half  of  the  ranche  will  belong  to  them." 

"  And  if  you  don't  find  them  ?  " 

"  If  I  don't  find  them,  that  is  if  I  find  absolute 
proof  of  their  death,  it  will  all  belong  to  me." 

"He  left  a  will?" 

"  Yes,  he  made  a  will.  He  made  it  himself, 
only  few  days  before  we  left  Santa  Clara.  Of 
course,  I  shall  find  them, — I've  got  to  find  them, 
alive  or  dead." 

"  But  you  won't  go  away  just  yet  ?  "  said  his 
mother,  anxiously. 

"No,  not  just  yet." 

"  How  will  you  know  where  to  find  them  ? " 

"  Oh,  well,  I  know  where  Meredith  left  them." 

"  How  long  ago  is  that  ?  " 

"  Some  fifteen  or  sixteen  years." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  boy,  anything  may  have  hap- 
pened. Has  he  never  written  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  believe  not.  He  left  his  wife,  confident  of 
making  a  fortune  ;  he  never  had  a  shade  of  luck 
until  he  met  me.  At  first,  as  you  know,  we  had 
only  the  luck  of  being  able  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together,  I  was  able  to  get  help  from  the  gover- 


24       A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

nor  ;  Meredith  had  no  governor.  Indeed,  right 
down  to  now  he  never  felt  that  he  could  write  to 
her  as  he  would  like  to  do.  So  when  I  proposed 
to  come  home  for  a  holiday  he  asked  me  to  find 
her — to  institute  inquiries,  you  understand." 

"  And  to  take  her  back  with  you  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Vincent. 

"  That  was  his  hope,  poor  old  chap.  Can't 
you  understand,  mother,  that  I  don't  like  even  to 
think  about  it  ?  " 

In  her  way  Mrs.  Vincent  was  a  very  wise  wo- 
man. From  that  moment  she  worried  her  son 
with  no  more  strictures  on  the  life  and  character 
of  his  chum,  Roger  Meredith.  More  than  that, 
she  spoke  to  her  youngest  daughter  on  the  sub- 
ject. 

"  If  I  were  you,  Laura,  she  said,  "  I  wouldn't 
speak  to  Dick  about  that  unfortunate  man,  Mere- 
dith, at  all.  He  has  taken  his  death  very  much 
to  heart  indeed.  There  seems  to  have  been  a 
great  deal  of  good  in  him,  poor  fellow.  I'm  quite 
sorry  for  Dick.  He'll  get  over  it  after  a  time,  but 
for  the  present  don't  encourage  him  either  to  talk 
about  him  or  think  about  him.  He  told  me  a 
good  deal  about  it  the  other  day.  I  quite  under- 
stand Dick  feeling  a  little  morbid  on  the  subject. 
Poor  fellow,  it's  very  sad,  just  when  they  were 
getting  into  smooth  water,  that  things  should  have 
gone  so  wrong.  I  feel  very  much  for  Dick  in 


A   Spell  of  Family   Life.       95 

the  whole  affair.  And  Dick  was  proud  of  him 
and  kept  him  straight.  It's  always  the  same  with 
drunkards — heart-breaking  work  trying  to  reclaim 
them.  I  feel  most  sorry  for  Dick,  and  if  we  can 
do  anything  to  prevent  him  from  even  thinking 
about  the  unfortunate  man  again,  it  will  be  quite 
the  wisest  course  we  can  take." 

"  Poor  dear  Dick !  Oh,  I  won't  say  a  word, 
mother,"  the  girl  replied.  "  I  saw  from  the  be- 
ginning, of  course,  that  he  was  brooding  very  much 
over  the  whole  affair,  and  quite  enough  to  make 
him.  It's  a  horrible  thing  to  see  your  friend  mur- 
dered before  your  very  eyes." 

"  My  dear,  Dick  didn't  see  it.  Dick  was  in 
New  York." 

"  Oh,  was  he  ?  I  thought  he  saw  it.  How 
do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Well,  Dick  showed  me  the  paper.  It  is  here  ; 
it  gives  an  account  of  the  whole  thing.  Curious 
people  they  are  out  there.  Actually  brought  it 
in — '  Died  by  the  visitation  of  God.'  Blasphem- 
ous, I  call  it." 

"  Ah,  I  suppose,"  rejoined  Laura,  "  that  it  was 
their  way  of  saying  that  there  was  no  blame  at- 
tached to  anybody.  But  as  you  say,  mother,  they 
are  queer  people." 

"  Juries,  my  dear,  are  queer  all  the  world  over. 
One  never  knows  what  a  jury  may  or  may  not  do, 
I'm  sure.  There  was  the  case  of  that  poor  Ed- 


96       A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

ward  Brown.  They  found  him  in  the  first  spin- 
ney at  the  Three-Mile-Bottom  with  his  head 
literally  battered  in,  and  the  jury  brought  it  in — 
<  Found  dead.'  " 

"  Oh,  he  was  killed  by  poachers." 

"  Ah,  but  would  you  imagine,"  cried  Mrs. 
Vincent,  "  that  respectable  jurymen  are  intimate 
with  poachers  ?  " 

"  It  looked  rather  like  it,"  said  Laura,  with  a 
laugh.  "  However,  perhaps  they'll  put  women 
on  juries  one  of  these  days,  and  perhaps  then  we 
shall  get  something  approaching  to  commonsense 
and  justice." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  pray  don't  allow  any 
such  horrible  ideas  to  dwell  in  your  mind  for  an 
instant.  I  hope  the  day  will  be  far  distant  when 
women  have  any  more  power  than  they  have 
now  ;  married  women  have  all  the  power  they 
want." 

"  And  the  unmarried  women  ?  "  cried  Laura, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  The  unmarried  women  ?  Oh,  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter what  becomes  of  them.  All  the  nice  women 
get  married." 

"  You  had  better  not  tell  Aunt  Charlotte  so," 
said  Laura,  with  an  irrepressible  giggle. 

"  Aunt  Charlotte  ?  "  Mrs.  Vincent  looked  up 
in  a  startled  kind  of  way.  "  Well,  rich  maiden 
aunts — oh,  of  course,  yes — they  form  a  sort  of 


A   Spell   of  Family   Life.       97 

class  by  themselves,  don't  they,  dear  ?  That  is 
rather  different.  But  you  will  remember  what  I 
say  about  poor  Dick  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  remember,  mother.  I  am  as  sorry 
for  poor  old  Dick  as  you  are.  And  from  what 
he  says  Roger  Meredith  must  have  been  a  good 
sort,  with  just  that  one  little  weakness  to  ruin 
him." 

But  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Vincent's  precautions  that 
nothing  should  be  said  to  remind  Dick  of  his  lost 
chum,  Dick  did  not  recover  his  natural  spirits. 
Truth  to  tell,  the  pilgrimage  which  he  must  make 
in  search  of  Roger  Meredith's  wife  and  child  had 
come  to  weigh  upon  his  spirits  like  a  lump  of 
lead,  or  a  bad  dream.  Of  course,  he  knew  that 
there  was  no  getting  off  the  quest,  that  he  would 
have  to  go,  he  would  have  to  use  every  endeavor 
to  find  the  woman  who  for  fifteen  years  had  been 
utterly  neglected  by  the  man  who  all  the  time  was 
pining  to  see  her  again. 

In  a  way  he  understood  Meredith's  action. 
He  understood  how  he  had  left  home  in  a  blaze 
of  triumph  and  prophecy  that  in  a  new  world  he 
would  easily  carve  out  a  new  career  which  should 
be  the  means  of  providing  for  her  and  the  child 
as  lavishly  as  the  most  loving  husband  could  de- 
sire. But  things  had  gone  wrong  ;  and  day  after 
day  went  by  until  Meredith's  hope  had  fled,  and 
he  had  not  liked  to  write  ;  he  had  been  ashamed 
7 


98      A     Matter  of  Sentiment. 

to  write  and  admit  his  failure.  Then,  after  fifteen 
years  had  passed,  it  was  naturally  most  difficult 
to  break  the  long  silence.  He  quite  understood, 
if  it  were  so  difficult  for  him,  what  it  must  have 
been  for  Meredith  himself — practically  impossible. 

However,  he  had  accepted  the  trust,  and  he 
must  carry  it  through.  It  was  a  sacred  trust — 
the  last  request  of  a  dead  and  gone  friend.  Yes, 
he  must  make  up  his  mind  to  leave  the  pleasant 
Kentish  home,  the  handsome  mother  and  sisters, 
the  cheery  father,  and  the  people  round  about,  all 
keenly  interested  in  the  doings  of  the  much- 
longed-for  son  and  heir  to  the  old  place.  Yes, 
he  must  leave  them.  He  must  go  down  to  Blank- 
hampton,  and  he  must  set  his  wits  to  work  to 
find  some  trace  of  Roger  Meredith's  wife — for 
when  Roger  Meredith  had  crossed  the  seas  in 
search  of  a  career  in  the  New  World,  his  wife  had 
gone  down  to  Blankhampton,  desiring,  for  some 
curious  motive  best  known  to  herself,  to  cast  her 
lines  among  strangers. 

"  Of  course,"  Meredith  had  said  to  her  the 
night  before  he  left  England,  "  of  course  you  will 
go  back  and  live  among  your  own  people  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  think  not.  I  will  write 
to  you  in  a  short  time.  You  had  better  leave 
me  free ;  I  shall  do  better  if  I  am  not  hampered 
in  any  way." 

Then,  after  a  few  weeks,  the  news  had  reached 


A   Spell   of  Family   Life.       99 

him  that  she  had  settled  herself  at  Blankhamp- 
ton. 

"  I  don't  know  one  soul  in  the  place,"  she 
wrote  to  him.  "  I  have  enough  money,  with  what 
you  gave  me,  to  establish  myself,  and  although 
my  poor  little  pittance  is  not  enough  to  keep  us 
on,  yet  I  am  certain  that  here  I  shall  get  some 
sort  of  work.  I  feel  convinced  that  the  way  will 
be  made  open  to  me.  I  like  Blankhampton 
very  much.  It  is  quiet  and  dull,  except  you  are 
in  the  Cathedral  set  or  the  Army  set,  but  the 
tone  of  the  place  is  good ;  it  has  an  air  of  sedate- 
ness  and  dignity  about  it  which  just  now  to  me 
is  very  comforting.  I  shall  very  contentedly 
stay  here,  dearest  Roger,  until  you  send  for  me." 

Was  she,  Dick  wondered,  still  waiting  the 
summons  or  had  she  grown  tired?  He  could 
not  tell  which  course  was  the  most  likely  one 
for  her  to  have  taken ;  whether  she  was  still  on 
the  alert  listening  for  the  postman's  knock, 
whether  she  had  dropped  by  the  wayside,  or 
whether  she  had  formed  new  ties,  new  interests, 
a  new  life.  He  had  written  down  in  his  pocket- 
book  the  last  address  from  which  Meredith  had 
heard  from  her.  He  did  not  know  Blankhamp- 
ton, he  had  never  been  there,  so  that  he  had 
not  the  slightest  inkling  whether  the  address  was 
a  good  or  a  bad  one.  It  was  a  very  curious- 
sounding  street — "Mrs.  Roger  Meredith,  19, 


ioo      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

Ogledal,  Blankhampton."  Ogledal  !  What  an 
extraordinary  name  for  a  street!  It  must  be 
a  street,  for  the  number  of  the  house  was  nineteen. 
Well,  he  would  go  down  to  Blackhampton,  and 
he  would  search  round  the  street  called  Ogledal, 
and  he  would  prosecute  inquiries. 

But  day  after  day  went  by  and  still  Dick 
Vincent  did  not  leave  Hollingridge,  until  at  last 
one  evening,  when  he  was  sitting  alone  smoking 
on  the  western  side  of  the  house,  it  suddenly 
came  upon  him  like  a  flash  of  light  that  he  was 
grossly  neglecting  his  best  friend's  last  request ; 
that  it  was  not  sufficient  to  say  to  himself  that  he 
would  set  about  Meredith's  business  some  day. 
Some  day  was  no  day ;  and  Dick  Vincent  shook 
himself  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  doubt  and 
indecision  in  which  he  had  been  lingering  for 
many  days,  and  told  himself  that  he  would  set 
off  on  his  quest  on  the  morrow. 


A   Resolve.  *01 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A    RESOLVE. 

"  GOING  away  to-morrow  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Vincent, 
in  a  tone  of  dismay.  "  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  we 
could  not  expect  to  keep  you  here  all  the  time." 

She  was  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  dinner  table ; 
Dick  was  beside  her.  She  leaned  her  elbows  upon 
the  table  and  looked  at  him  with  her  handsome 
eyes  full  of  regret. 

"  It  isn't  that,  mother.  1  would  rather  stay 
here  altogether,  until  I  have  to  go  back  to  Santa 
Clara,"  Dick  replied.  "  But  I  have  got  some 
very  important  business  to  carry  through." 

"  Oh  have  you  ?  Connected  with  Santa 
Clara  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  is  and  it  isn't.  It's  private  business  of 
Meredith's,  poor  old  chap — for  it's  the  last  thing 
he  asked  of  me.  I  didn't  see  about  it  before,  be- 
cause, to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  didn't  feel  equal  to 
it ;  but  the  time  is  going  on  now,  and  the  sooner 
I  see  it  through  the  better." 

"  Then  you'll  come  back  here  when  you're 
through  ?  " 


io2      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Oh,  yes,  mother,  of  course  1  shall."  Then 
Dick  laughed  a  little  laugh.  "  In  a  place  like 
Santa  Clara,  mother,  it  isn't  so  lively  or  so  com- 
fortable that  a  man  neglects  a  home  like  this  to 
go  gadding  about,  dining  at  restaurants  and  visit- 
ing theaters." 

"  Dear  boy  !  "  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  laying  her 
hand  affectionately  upon  his  arm. 

"  So  as  soon  as  I  am  through  I  shall  come 
back  again.  I  must  stay  a  day  or  two  in  town, 
just  to  see  after  a  few  things  I  want  to  take  out 

with  me.     I  should  like  to  get   them   ordered  in 

^*       »> 

time. 

"  And  Dick,  you'll  not  be  seven  years  before 
you  come  back  again  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  mother.  I  shall  come  back  every 
year  now,  unless  very  unforeseen  things  should 
happen.  You  see,  I  didn't  want  to  come  back  a 
pauper,  and  the  governor  had  lent  me  a  good  bit 
of  money,  so  I  didn't  feel  justified  until  we  really 
began  to  make.  But  now  there  is  not  likely  to 
be  any  lack  of  money,  although  it  is  quite  true  I 
may  not  make  millions.  But  I  shall  never  stay 
seven  years  again,  especially,"  he  added,  "with- 
out poor  old  Roger." 

"  You  will  take  another  partner  ?  "  asked  his 
father  from  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  It  isn't  likely  I  shall  meet 
another  man  I  feel  just  the  same  to  as  I  did  to 


A   Resolve.  I03 

Meredith.  And  a  partnership  is  a  very  close  busi- 
ness ;  it  is  nearly  as  close  as  getting  married." 

Mrs.  Vincent  rose  in  her  place  at  that  moment. 
"  Come,  girls,"  she  said,  "  let  us  go  into  the 
drawing-room." 

So  Dick  and  his  father  were  left  alone  to- 
gether, but  the  conversation  did  not  happen  to 
be  about  Santa  Clara.  Mrs.  Vincent  reverted  to 
the  subject,  however,  when  Dick  joined  them 
later  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  in  an  undertone,  as 
Dick  settled  himself  down  on  the  sofa  by  her 
side,  a  very  favorite  corner  of  his,  "  I  suppose 
you  are  going  to  look  up  Mr.  Meredith's  wife  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  try  and  find  her,  mother.  I 
am  afraid,"  he  added  penitently,  "that  I  have 
neglected  it  too  long." 

"  Oh,  well,  dear,  it  can  make  very  little  differ- 
ence to  her,  poor  soul,  after  all  these  years  of 
waiting.  And  it  was  really  necessary  that  you 
should  relax  yourself  a  little  after  your  long 
strain." 

"  Well,  it's  not  a  pleasant  task,  anyhow.  But 
still  I  must  go  through  with  it." 

"  You  won't  be  away  longer  than  you  can 
help  ? " 

"  No,  no  ;  I  don't  want  to  go  at  all." 

"  Dear  boy  !  "  said  Mrs.  Vincent  in  her  most 
caressing  tones. 


I04     A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

So  the  following  day  Dick  Vincent  set  off. 
He  did  not  go  straight  to  Blankhampton,  but 
stayed  the  rest  of  the  day  and  night  in  London  ; 
and  the  day  after  that,  by  a  moderately  early  train, 
he  continued  his  journey,  and  in  due  course  of 
time — otherwise  about  five  hours — he  found  him- 
self in  the  well-known  cathedral  city. 

He  turned  his  back  upon  the  gaudy  Station 
Hotel,  and  inquired  of  the  cabman  which  was 
the  most  comfortable  hotel  in  the  city  itself. 
The  Jehu,  who  was  ancient  and  well  steeped  in 
the  traditions  of  Blankhampton,  told  him  that  at 
the  Golden  Swan  he  would  find  excellent  accom- 
modation for  both  man  and  beast. 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  haven't  got  a  beast,"  said 
Dick,  "  but  the  Golden  Swan  will  do  me  very 
well.  Drive  me  there." 

And  to  the  Golden  Swan  he  w^s  driven.  He 
thought  St.  Thomas's  Street,  in  which  it  lay, 
seemed  rather  narrow  and  antiquated ;  he  did  not 
realize  then  that  in  its  narrowness  lay  its  chief 
charm.  He  found  the  Golden  Swan  an  old- 
fashioned  hostelry,  where  he  was  given  a  warm 
welcome  and  conducted  to  a  large  sleeping  apart- 
ment, the  furniture  of  which  was  very  old  and 
solid.  The  hangings  were  very  white  and  spot- 
less, and  the  room  like  the  rest  of  the  hotel,  had 
an  indescribable  air  of  long-established  solidity. 

"  Will  you    take    anything,  sir  ? "  asked  the 


A   Resolve.  I05 

chamber-maid,  as  she  stood  watching  the  porter 
of  the  hotel  unstrap  Dick's  portmanteau. 

"  Yes,  I  will  have  a  whisky  and  soda  when  I 
come  down-stairs." 

"  Will  you  dine  here  to-night,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  suppose  there's  a  table  d'hote  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  there's  dinner  at  seven  to  half- 
past." 

"  Very  good.  Tell  them  to  keep  a  place  for 
me." 

It  was  then  nearly  six  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
He  washed  his  hands  and  brushed  off  the  dusty 
effects  of  the  journey.  Then  he  went  down-stairs 
and  had  a  whisky  and  soda.  After  that,  he 
lighted  a  cigarette  and  stood  on  the  steps  of  the 
hotel  watching  the  rank  and  fashion  of  Blank- 
hampton  go  up  and  down  the  street.  He  had 
heard  before  that  Blankhampton  was  famous  for 
its  pretty  girls,  but  he  had  not  been  prepared  for 
the  panorama  of  beauty  which  spread  itself  out 
that  evening  before  his  astonished  eyes.  They 
came  past  in  twos  and  threes,  and  each  one  seemed 
to  be  prettier  than  the  last. 

"  Gad  !  this  is  the  placet  o  come  to,"  he  said 
to  himself. 

He  was  a  singularly  uninflammable  man ;  had 
he  not  been  so  he  would  certainly  never  have 
stayed  seven  years  at  Santa  Clara  with  no  more 
than  an  occasional  jaunt  down  to  the  western 


io6      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

towns,  in  which  beautiful  women  did  not  as  a  rule 
flourish. 

"  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  his  thoughts 
ran,  "  St.  Aubyn  used  to  say  what  a  jolly  billet 
Blankhampton  was.  And  I  remember  he  raved 
about  the  girls.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  has  kept 
up  its  tradition  ;  these  girls  are  extraordinarily 
good-looking." 

Then  he  looked  back  into  the  hotel.  "  What 
regiment  is  quartered  here  now  ?  "  he  asked  of  the 
barmaid,  who  was  to  be  found  behind  a  huge 
glass  screen  opposite  to  the  door. 

"  The  Black  Horse,"  the  girl  replied. 

"  The  Black  Horse  ?     You  don't  say  so  !     By 

Ji  " 
ove  ! 

"  You  seem  pretty  much  astonished,"  said  the 
girl. 

"  Well,  I  am.     It  was  my  old  regiment." 

"  Really  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  must  go  and  call  to-morrow." 

Then  he  turned  back  and  took  up  his  position 
on  the  step  once  more.  He  did  not,  however, 
stay  there  very  long,  for  just  as  he  was 
lighting  a  fresh  cigarette,  a  girl  came  along  the 
street  whose  beauty  so  far  outshone  all  others  who 
had  gone  before  her  that  Dick  was,  figuratively 
speaking,  knocked  all  of  a  heap.  She  was  very 
plainly  and  simply  dressed,  and  she  was  quite 
alone.  For  a  moment  Dick  stood  glaring  blankly 


A   Resolve.  I07 

after  her,  the  match  still  in  his  hand.  It  was 
not,  indeed,  until  the  flame  reached  his  fingers 
that  he  realized  how  completely  he  had  been  as- 
tounded and  dumfounded  by  this  vision  of 
beauty.  Then,  as  quick  as  thought,  he  de- 
scended the  steps  and  gave  chase  up  the  street. 
The  girl  herself  was  so  unconscious  of  his  pres- 
ence that  Dick  instinctively  was  all  carefulness 
not  to  attract  her  attention,  but  he  had  a  good 
satisfying  stare  at  her  ;  noted  the  simple  gray 
coat  and  skirt,  white  sailor  hat  bound  with  white 
ribbon,  the  neat  gray  gloves,  and  firm  light  foot- 
step. She  was  evidently  out  on  business  of  some 
kind,  for  she  went  into  several  shops  and  came 
out  of  them,  and  set  off  down  the  street  carrying 
some  small  parcels  and  a  library  book  under  her 
arm.  He  followed  her  no  further  than  the  end 
of  the  street  ;  she  was  not  the  kind  of  girl  that  a 
man  follows  for  very  long.  Then  he  retraced 
his  steps  to  the  hotel,  and  once  more  interviewed 
the  pretty  barmaid. 

"Is  there  a  street  in  Blankhampton  called 
Ogledal  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied. 

"Is  it  far  from  here  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  go  right  up  to  the  top  of  the  street, 
and  then  you  come  to  a  street  which  goes  straight 
down  to  the  cathedral.  You  turn  to  the  right 
when  you  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  street,  and  go 


108      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

round  the  cathedral  to  the  right,  and  it's  the  third 
street  you  come  to  leading  out  of  the  parish 
precincts." 

"  Oh,  I  see  ;  thank  you  very  much.  What 
sort  of  a  street  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  queer  little  old-fashioned  street  with  a 
double  turning  in  it." 

"  What  sort  of  people  live  there  ?  " 

"  Well,  lik  call  the  old  streets  in  Blankhamp- 
ton,"  the  girl  replied,  "  there  are  some  big 
houses  and  some  little  pokey  houses.  Some  of 
the  best  people  live  in  houses  that  lead  out  of 
Ogledal." 

"  Oh,  I  see ;  thank  you  very  much."  And 
Dick  turned  on  his  heel  and  was  soon  swinging 
away  up  the  street  at  a  good  rapid  pace. 

He  found  the  cathedral  easily  enough,  and  by 
following  exactly  the  directions  that  had  been 
given  to  him  soon  saw  the  curious  name  of  Ogle- 
dal put  up  on  a  board  at  the  end  of  a  narrow 
street.  So  this  was  where  Roger's  wife  had  found 
a  shelter. 

It  was  a  queer  street.  At  the  end  at  which  he 
entered  it  there  was  to  the  right  a  low,  old-fash- 
ioned house  such  as  you  never  find  except  in  the 
neighborhood  of  a  cathedral ;  on  the  other  was  a 
long  garden  wall.  Then  another  wall  on  either 
side,  evidently  the  boundary  of  private  gardens  ; 
then  a  wide  old  entrance  into  a  great  square,  with 


A   Resolve.  I09 

a  splendid  house,  almost  like  the  houses  you  see 
in  the  older  parts  of  French  towns,  and  half-a- 
dozen  small  houses  on  either  side.  Then  a 
curious  house  with  "  St.  Giles's  Rectory  "  written 
on  the  door-plate ;  then  another  wretched  en- 
trance into  a  court.  Then  half-a-dozen  common- 
place houses,  and  opposite  some  kind  of  manu- 
factory— or  rather  some  kind  of  works  ;  then  a 
brewer's  yard  and  several  tall  chimneys ;  then 
some  cottages.  This  was  on  the  right  side  of  the 
street.  As  he  walked  on  the  left,  with  its  com- 
monplace modern  houses,  he  came  to  two  semi- 
mansions.  They  were  respectively  numbers 
twenty-three  and  twenty-one.  So  he  was  close 
upon  number  nineteen. 

Number  nineteen  was  a  small,  old-fashioned 
house,  with  a  window  full  of  plants,  a  framed  plate 
of  fashions,  and  a  sheet  of  blue  glass  in  a  gilt 
frame,  on  which  was  written  in  letters  of  gold — 
"  Miss  Beazley,  Dress  and  Mantle  Maker." 
Dick  stood  still  for  a  moment  looking  at  the 
fuchsias  and  geraniums,  at  the  simpering  fashion 
plate,  and  the  blue  glass  with  its  gilt  letters. 

"  Miss  Beazley,"  he  muttered.  "  Well,  she 
might  know  something.  I  may  as  well  ask." 

Then  he  stepped  to  the  door  and  rapped  half- 
a-dozen  times  with  the  little  tin-pot  knocker.  At 
first  there  was  no  response.  He  waited  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  knocked  again.  Then  there 


110     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

was  a  scuffling  and  a  scurrying  of  feet  within,  and 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  snub-nosed  girl  of  about 
fourteen  or  fifteen  years  old. 

"  Does  Mrs.  Meredith  live  here  ?  "  inquired 
Dick. 

The  girl  looked  up  in  a  scared  kind  of  way  at 
the  tall  soldierly  young  man.  "  Mrs.  Meredith  ? 
No,  I  don't  know  that  name,"  she  said.  "  Miss 
Beazley  lives  here." 

"  Yes,  I  see  she  does  by  the  plate  in  the  win- 
dow. Has  she  lived  here  long  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I  have  not  been 
with  her  very  long." 

"Is  Miss  Beazley  at  home  ? " 

"  No,  sir,  she  isn't  at  home.     She's  out." 

"  Oh  !     When  will  she  be  at  home  ?  " 

"  Well,  she  might  be  home  about  nine  to-night. 
She's  gone  up  to  Water  Muggleston  to  fit  on  a 
lady." 

"  To  fit  on  a  lady  ?  Oh  !  You  think  she'll 
be  at  home  about  nine  ?  " 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  she'll  be  at  home  about  nine, 
because  the  train  gets  in  at  twenty-five  minutes 
before  nine." 

"  I  see.  If  I  came  back  at  nine  you  think  she 
would  see  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  she'd  see  you." 

"  Or  could  I  see  her  in  the  morning  ?  Nine 
o'clock  is  rather  late  to  answer  inquiries." 


A   Resolve. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  you  could  see  her  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"Will  she  be  at  home  at  ten  o'clock,  do  you 
think  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,.  I  should  think  she'd  be  at  home  at 
ten  o'clock." 

At  this  juncture  another  voice,  proceeding 
from  the  dim  recesses  of  the  little  house,  spoke 
to  the  girl.  "  What  does  the  gentleman  want, 
Mary  Ann  ? " 

"  He  wants  Miss  Beazley." 

"  Well,  Miss  Beazley  is  out.  Is  there  anything 
I  can  do  ?  " 

The  voice  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  then  a 
stout  elderly  person,  wiping  a  pair  of  wet  hands 
upon  a  not  too  clean  apron,  came  round  the  corner 
and  into  view.  "  I  am  Miss  Beazley's  mother," 
she  said  to  Dick  Vincent.  "  May  I  ask  what 
you  want  of  her  ?  " 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  answered  Dick, 
"  I  don't  know  anything  of  Miss  Beazley  at  all. 
I  want  a  Mrs.  Meredith  who  lived  here  in  this 
house  about  fifteen  years  ago.  I  suppose  you 
haven't  been  here  as  long  as  that  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Meredith  ?  Would  you  please  walk  in, 
sir  ?  Come  into  the  parlor." 

So  Dick  strolled  in  and  stood,  looking  very  tall 
indeed,  in  the  little  parlor  with  its  wax  flowers 
and  its  crochet  antimacassars. 


112      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"Thank  you  very  much.  I'm  afraid  I'm 
troubling  you,  but  the  fact  is  I  want  to  see  Mrs. 
Meredith  on  most  important  business,  and  with 
as  little  delay  as  possible.  If  you  can  give  me 
any  information  about  her  I  should  be  most 
grateful  to  you." 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  Mrs.  Beazley,  still  wiping 
her  hands  and  gazing  reflectively  through  the 
screen  of  plants  out  into  the  street.  "  1  can't. 
We've  been  here  three  years  come  Michaelmas ; 
and  before  us  there  was  a  Mr.  Johnson  used 
to  live  here.  He  was  a  naturalist ;  he  used 
to — you  know,  sir,  a  naturalist — stuff  birds, 
and  blow  eggs,  and  mount  butterflies  and 
things  of  that  kind.  He  was  here  for  a  many 
years." 

"  Oh  !     And  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Johnson,  he's  dead,"  said  the  old 
lady.  "  Mrs.  Johnson,  his  wife,  likewise  she's 
dead." 

"  Can't  get  any  information  out  of  them,"  said 
Dick. 

"  No,  that  you  can't — not  in  this  world,  at 
least.  But  they  had  a  married  daughter,  and  she 
used  to  live  in  Briergate.  She  was  married  to  a 
very  clever  young  fellow  that  sang  in  the  parish 
choir.  He  sang  alto  ;  and  then  his  voice  cracked 
and  he  got  a  place  as  organist  out  in  the  country 
somewhere,  and  took  pupils.  Now  she  would 


A   Resolve.  "3 

know,  if  Mrs.  Meredith  lodged  with  her  father 
and  mother,  she  would  know  all  about  her." 

"  But  where  does  she  live  ? "  asked  Dick. 

"  Ah,  now,  that's  slipped  my  memory.  But 
when  my  daughter  comes  home — she's  got  a 
better  memory  than  I  have,  and  she  keeps  going 
with  people  more  ;  I  think  young  people  do.  So 
if  you  could  make  it  convenient  to  call  round  to- 
morrow, sometime  when  my  daughter  would  be 
likely  to  be  in — and  that  will  be  all  the  morning 
— I  dare  say  she  could  give  you  the  information 
you  want." 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Dick,  "  I  am  much  obliged 
to  you.  If  I  were  to  come  in  between  ten  and 
eleven,  would  that  suit  Miss  Beazley,  should  you 
think  ? " 

"  Well,  sir,  I  should  think  it  would.  I've  not 
heard  of  anything  particular  that  she's  got  to  do 
at  that  time.  I  know  she's  a  lady  coming  to  be 
fitted  at  twelve." 

"  Well,  I'll  come  before  eleven,"  said  Dick, 
"and  I'm  extremely  obliged  to  you." 

"  I  haven't  done  nothing  for  you  yet,  sir,"  said 
Mrs.  Beazley,  following  him  to  the  door. 

"  Well,  you  have  shown  willing,"  said  Dick, 
taking  off  his  hat  with  a  flourish. 
8 


IJ4     A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  FIRST  LINK    IN  THE  CHAIN. 

BETWEEN  a  very  excellent  dinner  and  the  feel- 
ing that  he  was  on  the  high-road  to  the  discovery 
of  Mrs.  Meredith,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  seen 
the  most  beautiful  girl  that  day  that  he  had  ever 
seen  in  his  life,  Dick  Vincent  passed  the  evening 
in  a  very  much  happier  frame  of  mind  than  he 
had  imagined  he  could  possibly  be  in  when  he 
left  London  that  morning. 

He  was  up  betimes — for  life  in  California  does 
not  tend  to  the  formation  of  habits  of  laziness. 
He  had  a  regular  Blankhampton  breakfast  too — 
and  let  me  tell  you  that  Blankhampton  hotels  are 
famous  for  their  good  cheer,  especially  in  the 
earliest  meal  of  the  day — and  then  about  half- 
past  ten,  feeling  very  well  fortified  for  carrying  on 
his  quest,  he  sauntered  up  the  street,  and  once 
more  knocked  at  the  door  of  number  nineteen, 
Ogledal. 

The  little  maid  was  ready,  and  answered  his 
knock  promptly.  "  Yes,  sir,  Miss  Beazley  is  in. 
Step  this  way,  please,  sir." 

Once  more   Dick  found  himself  in  the  little 


The  First  Link  in  the  Chain.  "5 

parlor,  and  almost  immediately  the  old  lady  whom 
he  had  seen  the  previous  evening  came  beaming 
in. 

"  Good  morning  !  I  knew  my  daughter  would 
know,"  she  remarked.  "  She  has  such  a  much 
better  memory  than  I  have.  I  can  remember 
anything  as  happened  when  I  was  a  little  girl, 
but  when  you  ask  me  about  last  week  I'm  done. 
Here  she  is.  Now,  honey,  this  is  the  gentle- 
man." 

"  My  name  is  Vincent,"  said  Dick,  with  a  very 
polite  bow  to  the  young  dressmaker. 

She  was  a  pale,  slim  girl  some  three  or  four- 
and-twenty,  and  she  addressed  herself  directly  to 
the  visitor.  "  You  wanted  to  know  about  Mr. 
Johnson's  daughter — married  daughter  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  did  and  I  didn't.  Your  mother  was 
kind  enough  to  tell  me  last  night  that  she  thought 
the  lady  would  be  able  to  give  me  the  informa- 
tion I  require.  I  am  really  looking  for  a  Mrs. 
Meredith — who  lived  in  this  house  fifteen  years 
ago.  Whether  she  rented  the  house,  or  whether 
she  lodged  in  it  I  have  not  the  least  idea." 

"  Oh,  she  must  have  lodged  in  it,"  said  Miss 
Beazley,  "because  the  Johnsons  lived  here  for 
about  five-and-twenty  years,  and  we  took  it  of 
them — at  least,  we  took  it  after  they  left." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  Then  you  think  she  must  have 
lodged  with  the  Johnsons  ?  " 


116       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  I  think  she  must  have  done.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  it  myself,  but  I'm  sure  Mrs. 
Johnson's  daughter  would  know.  She  married  a 
gentleman  called  Pilkington.  He  was  in  the 
choir  at  the  parish ;  in  fact,  he  lodged  with  the 
Johnsons." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  And  do  you  happen  to  know 
where  they  live  now  ?  " 

"  Yes.  His  voice  broke,  and  he  got  a  place 
as  organist  at  Bensehill,  and  he  teaches  music  and 
so  on.  I  think  they  do  very  well." 

"  And  where  is  Bensehill  ?  " 

"  Well,  Bensehill  is  about  three  miles  from 
Blankhampton." 

"  How  does  one  get  there  ?  You  see,  I  am 
quite  a  stranger  to  this  neighborhood." 

"  Oh,  it's  easy  enough  to  get  there.  You  can 
take  a  cab,  or  you  can  walk,"  smiling  at  him,  "  or 
you  can  go  by  train." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  I  can  go  by  train.  That  would 
be  the  quickest,  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"Yes.  It's  on  the  Rockferry  line,  and  trains 
are  pretty  frequent.  Anybody  in  Bensehill  will, 
of  course,  tell  you  where  the  Pilkingtons  live." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Well,  Miss  Beazley,  I  must  thank 
you,  and  your  mother  too,  very  much  indeed  for 
your  kindness  to  a  perfect  stranger.  You  per- 
haps would  like  to  know  why  I  am  so  anxious  to 
find  Mrs.  Meredith.  The  truth  is  I  have  just 


The  First  Link  in  the  Chain.  "7 

come  from  California,  and  some  relatives  of  hers 
there — at  least,  a  relative  of  hers  there — asked  me 
to  find  her  out  if  I  could.  So  you  see,  I  am 
anxious  to  find  her  as  quickly  as  possible." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure,"  said  Miss  Beazley,  "  if  any- 
body can  tell  you  anything  about  her  it  will  be 
Mrs.  Pilkington." 

"  And  to  Mrs.  Pilkington  I  will  go  by  the  first 
train  that  will  convey  me.  So  good  morning, 
and  thank  you  both  a  thousand  times." 

The  old  lady  stood  on  the  doorstep  and 
watched  him  go  swinging  away  up  the  street. 
"  That's  a  handsome  young  feller,  Jenny,"  she 
said.  "  He's  got  the  same  look  as  the  officers 
have — so  clean  and  so  smart.  Well,  I'm  sure  I 
hope  he'll  find  his  Mrs.  Meredith." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  her  daughter.  "  And  I  hope 
he's  brought  good  news  to  her,  whoever  she  is." 

"  Hey  dear,"  with  a  sigh,  "  it's  a  hard  and 
weary  world." 

"  Lor',  mother,  I  wish  we  had  a  smart  young 
man  coming  and  inquiring  for  us." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Beazley,  "  there's 
no  knowing  what  fate  won't  do  for  you  ;  but  I'm 
afraid,  though  you're  so  genteel,  Jenny,  with 
yer  nice  pale  face  and  yer  slim  figure,  that  if  any 
smart  young  men  came  after  you,  and  they  saw 
your  poor  old  mother,  it  would  sort  of  give  'em 
the  cold  shivers." 


118        A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Go  along  with  you,  mother,"  said  Miss 
Beazley. 

Meantime  Dick  had  gone  briskly  up  the  street, 
across  the  cathedral  precincts,  and  down  St. 
Thomas's  Street  to  the  Golden  Swan.  A  fresh 
inquiry  of  the  buxom  barmaid  elicited  the  fact 
that  there  was  a  train  to  Bensehill  at  five  minutes 
to  twelve.  He  determined  to  go  by  that.  He 
filled  in  the  time  until  the  train  was  due  by  tak- 
ing a  brisk  walk  round  the  city  walls,  and  walked 
into  the  station  with  just  time  to  buy  a  newspaper 
and  take  his  ticket. 

He  found  Bensehill  the  usual  little  roadside 
station,  with  a  pompous  little  station-master  and 
one  antiquated  porter. 

"  How  far  is  the  village  from  here  ?  "  he  in- 
quired of  the  latter  as  he  took  his  ticket. 

"  The  village  ?  Three-quarters  of  a  mile,"  was 
the  reply. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  whether  a  Mr.  Pilkington 
lives  in  the  village  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Mr.  Pilkington,  he  lives  in  the 
village,  to  be  sure.  Plays  the  music  on  Sunday, 
and  teaches  in  the  week-day." 

"  Yes,  that's  the  man,"  said  Dick,  cheerfully. 

"  Yes,  he  lives — well,  I  doubt  if  I  could  make 
you  understand,  sir.  You'd  better  ask  at  the 
post-office.  You'll  find  that  right  in  the  center 
of  the  village." 


The  First  Link  in  the  Chain.  "9 

"  All  right ;  thank  you  very  much.  Good 
morning." 

So  Dick  left  the  station  with  its  oyster  shells 
and  its  glowing  red  geraniums  behind  him,  and 
swung  steadily  away  in  the  direction  of  the  vil- 
lage. The  post-office  was  easy  enough  to  find. 
The  postmistress  was  a  garrulous  old  lady,  who 
at  once  proceeded  to  give  him  the  proper  direc- 
tions for  reaching  the  Pilkingtons'  house,  and  also 
as  much  of  the  Pilkington  history  as  she  could 
cram  into  the  two  or  three  minutes  that  Dick 
remained  in  the  little  shop. 

"  Ah,  yes,  sir,  a  clever  man — what  I  may  say 
a  genius  ;  thrown  away  on  this  little  village,  I 
must  confess,  although  I  have  lived  in  Bensehill 
all  my  life — a  clever  man  -and  a  genius.  We've 
brilliant  services  on  Sundays  ;  we  never  had  be- 
fore Mr.  Pilkington  came.  The  rector,  he  said  to 
me  time  and  again,  £  Miss  Jenkins,'  said  he,  cyou 
can  play  the  piano,  why  can't  you  play  the  organ  ?' 
Which,  as  I  told  the  rector  more  than  once,  it  isn't 
an  organ  but  a  harmonium.  *  Then,'  said  he, c  the 
easier  for  you  to  play  ;  because  it's  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  a  piano.'  But  it's  one  thing  playing 
the  piano  for  your  own  pleasure  and  your  friends' 
amusement,  and  it's  quite  another  thing  playing 
in  public  and  for  the  service  of  the  Almighty." 

"  That's  perfectly  true  !  "  said  Dick.  "  But, 
still,  if  one  does  one's  best,  you  know." 


120      A   Matter   of  Sentiment. 

"  Ah,  yes,  yes  ;  that  was  the  argument  the 
others  used — particularly  the  rector.  And  then 
by  some  merciful  chance,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
Mr.  Pilkington  came  along.  A  first-class  musician  ! 
Been  years  in  the  parish  choir — the  parish,  that 
is  the  cathedral,  you  know,  sir,  at  Blankhampton. 
Something  had  happened  to  his  voice ;  I  don't 
know  what,  but  he  and  his  wife  wanted  a  country 
place  where  the  air  would  be  pure,  and  where  he 
could  play  the  organ  and  pick  up  a  living  in  the 
neighborhood.  Oh,  they  had  a  trifle.  Mrs.  Pil- 
kington was  a  Miss  Johnson.  Her  father  was  a 
very  clever  man — not  to  say  a  learned  man — and 
she  was  an  only  child.  Oh,  she  has  a  nice  little 
tidy  income  of  her  own,  and  you  know  a  tidy 
little  income  makes  people  independent." 

"  I'm  sure  it  does.  They  showed  their  good 
sense  in  coming  here,"  said  Dick.  "  And  which 
is  the  way  to  their  house  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  go  down  this  lane  here,  and  you 
take  the  second  turning  to  the  right,  and  you'll 
find  the  house — like  a  little  bower  it  is  now,  all 
smothered  in  roses.  Mrs.  Pilkington  is  a  very 
ladylike  little  person,  quite  genteel." 

"  I  see,"  said  Dick,  "  down  the  lane,  and  sec- 
ond turning  to  the  right  ? " 

"  Yes,  that's  it." 

"  Is  there  a  name  on  the  house  ? " 

"  Well,  there  isn't  a  name  on  the  house  that  I 


The  First  Link  in  the  Chain.  I2T 

ever  saw  myself,  and  their  letters  are  simply  ad- 
dressed f  Dead  Man's  Lane '  or  just  Bensehill ; 
but  there  are  only  three  houses  in  that  part  of  the 
lane,  and  the  Pilkingtons'  house  has  a  mulberry 
tree  right  in  the  middle  of  the  lawn." 

"  I  shall  find  it,"  said  Dick.  "  Thank  you  a 
thousand  times." 

"  Nice  pleasant-spoken  gentleman.  I  wonder 
if  he's  an  old  lover  of  Mrs.  Pilkington's  come 
back  again  ? "  said  the  old  romantic  old  postmis- 
tress. 

So  Dick  went  down  the  lane  and  took  the 
second  turning  to  the  right,  speedily  coming  into 
sight  of  a  small  rose-wreathed  house  which  boast- 
ed of  a  mulberry  tree  in  the  middle  of  the  little 
lawn  which  skirted  the  road.  Here  he  stopped, 
satisfied  himself  that  it  was  the  house,  thrust  open 
the  little  gate,  and  strolled  up  the  graveled  path- 
way to  the  rose-covered  porch. 

A  little  maidservant  came  to  the  door  in  answer 
to  his  summons. 

"  Does  Mrs.  Pilkington  live  here  ? "  asked 
Dick. 

"  Mrs.  Pilkington  she  do  live  here,"  was  the 
reply. 

"  Would  you  give  her  this  card  and  ask  her  if 
she  would  see  me  for  a  few  minutes  on  business  ?  " 
said  Dick. 

He  had  been  so  long  in  California,  and  before 


122        A.  Matter   of  Sentiment. 

that  his  life  had  run  in  channels  well  away  from 
suburban  London,  that  it  never  occurred  to  him 
that  had  he  been  living  in  Clapton  or  East  Croy- 
don,  it  was  the  last  message  he  would  have  sent 
in  to  the  unknown  mistress  of  a  house.  Bense- 
hill  was  also,  presumably,  too  far  removed  from 
the  beaten  track  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  pay 
visits  of  a  business  kind  to  take  fright  at  his  mes- 
sage. The  little  maid  left  him  standing  at  the  door, 
and  then  came  running  back  saying  with  an  eager 
gasp  that  "  Mistress  would  be  pleased  if  you 
would  walk  into  the  parlor." 

So  into  the  parlor  Dick  walked.  It  was  a  neat 
little  room,  a  shade  more  refined  than  the  similar 
apartment  in  the  house  of  Mrs.  Beazley.  In  one 
corner  there  stood  a  piano  ;  some  blooming  plants 
and  some  nice  green  ones  stood  in  the  window. 
There  was  a  broad  couch  covered  with  immacu- 
lately clean  chintz,  and  one  or  two  illustrated 
papers  on  the  table.  Dick  decided  in  his  own 
mind  that  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Pilkington,  or  both  of 
them,  must  be  distinctly  superior  in  class  to  Mrs. 
Pilkington's  original  status.  He  had  just  arrived 
at  this  conclusion  when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs. 
Pilkington  came  into  the  room.  In  her  hand  she 
held  his  card. 

"  You  wanted  to  see  me  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  a  question,"  he  replied, 
"  Did  you  ever  know  a  Mrs.  Meredith  ? " 


The  First  Link  in  the  Chain.   I23 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  surprise. 
"Yes,  I  did." 

"  Is  she  living  ?  " 

"  I  believe  she  is." 

"  Is  she  married  again  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  certainly  not.  She  never  had  any 
proof  of  her  husband's  death." 

"  Can  you  give  me  her  address  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  can." 

"  I  don't  want  it  for  any  unpleasant  purpose — 
indeed,  rather  the  contrary,"  said  Dick.  "  I  shall 
at  least  have  the  pleasure  of  bringing  the  mystery 
of  her  husband's  long  silence  to  an  end." 

"  You  knew  him  ?  " 

"  I  knew  him  very  well.  We  lived  together 
for  seven  years." 

"In  America?" 

"In  California.  We  were  partners.  I  never 
knew  until  quite  recently  that  Mr.  Meredith  was 
married.  I  am  looking  for  his  wife  on  his  be- 
half." 

"Then,"  said  Mrs.  Pilkington,  "  I  will  give  you 
her  address.  You  will  find  her  at  Gatehouses." 

"  Gatehouses  ?     Where  is  that  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  village  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from 
Blankhampton.  Anybody  in  the  town  will  tell 
you  in  which  direction." 

"  I  thank  you  very  much,"  said  Dick.  She 
lives  there  ? " 


I24      A   Matter  of  Sentiment 

"  Yes,  she  has  lived  there  for  some  years.  Her 
daughter  is  the  mistress  of  the  infant  school." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  Her  daughter  is  not  married 
then  ? " 

"  No,  she  is  not  married.     She  is  young." 

"  Yes,  she  must  be  young  from  what  Meredith 
told  me,"  said  Dick.  "  Well,  Mrs.  Pilkington," 
holding  out  his  hand,  "  I  am  extremely  obliged 
to  you — more  than  I  can  say.  I  expected  to  have 
much  more  trouble  in  finding  my  old  friend's  wife, 
and  you  have  made  the  way  very  easy  for  me. 
Good-bye.  Thank  you  again." 

So  he  was  soon  striding  away  down  the  lane 
again. 

He  found  when  he  got  to  the  post-office  that 
he  would  have  to  wait  an  hour  and  a  half  for  the 
next  train  back  to  Blankhampton,  so  instead  of 
going  straight  back  to  the  station,  there  to  cool 
his  heels  until  the  train  should  arrive,  he  went 
across  the  street  to  the  village  inn  and  asked  the 
apple-cheeked  landlady  what  she  could  do  for  him 
in  the  way  of  lunch. 


Gatehouses.  I25 


CHAPTER  XI. 

GATEHOUSES. 

WHEN  Dick  Vincent  found  himself  once  more 
at  Blankhampton,  he  lost  no  time  inquiring  the 
road  to  Gatehouses  ;  in  fact,  he  got  into  a  cab  at 
the  station  and  told  the  man  to  drive  him  to 
Gatehouses.  It  was  then  nearly  three  o'clock. 

"  How  far  is  it  ?     A  mile  and  a  half?  " 

"  Thereabouts,  sir." 

To  Dick  it  seemed  a  very  short  mile  and  a 
half;  but  then,  although  he  was  determined  to 
find  Mrs.  Meredith,  he  was  not  at  all  anxious  for 
the  interview  to  begin.  "  Find  out,"  said  he  to 
the  cabman,  when  they  approached  the  village, 
"  where  Mrs.  Meredith  lives." 

"  All  right,  sir." 

The  house  of  Mrs.  Meredith  was  not  difficult 
to  find,  and  before  Dick  knew  where  he  was  the 
cabman  had  drawn  up  at  its  door. 

"  You  had  better  wait  for  me,"  he  said.  He 
felt  somehow  as  if  he  would  not  want  to  walk  back 
into  the  city  again. 

He  knocked  at  the  door.     It  was  opened  by  a 


126     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

lady  whom  he  at  once  recognized  as  the  original 
of  the  portrait  which  Meredith  had  shown  him. 

"  Are  you  Mrs.  Meredith  ?  "  said  Dick,  taking 
off  his  hat. 

"  Yes,  I  am."  Her  tone  was  one  of  slight 
surprise. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly." 

"My  name  is  Vincent — Richard  Vincent.  I 
have  just  come  from  California." 

Mrs.  Meredith,  who  had  preceded  him  into  the 
dainty  little  sitting-room,  turned  with  a  start  and 
a  gasp.  "  You  have  come  from — him  ? "  she 
said,  sharply. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  simply,  "  I  have." 

"  After  all  these  years — after  all  these  years  !  " 
said  the  little  woman  with  a  sob  in  her  breath. 
"  And  he  hasn't  forgotten  me  !  " 

"  He  had  never  forgotten  you,"  said  Dick, 
"  although  he  had  not  spoken  of  you  until  the 
other  day  to  his  best  friend." 

"  That  was  you  ?  "  she  said. 

Dick's  nervous  face  relaxed  into  a  half  smile. 
u  Yes,"  he  said.  "  For  seven  years  Meredith 
and  I  were  partners.  We  lived  together ;  we 
were  everything  to  each  other." 

"  And  he  spoke  of  me  at  last.  Sit  down,  Mr. 
Vincent.  Tell  me  everything,"  she  entreated  in 
a  shaking  voice.  "  This  has  come  upon  me  very 


Gatehouses.  I27 

suddenly.  I  had  begun  to  think  that  he  had 
forgotten  me,  perhaps,  and  that  he  had  formed 
new  ties." 

"  Never  ! "  said  Dick, "  never  !  I  never  knew 
him  look  at  a  woman.  It  was  revelation  to  me 
when  he  told  me  of  your  existence,  when  he 
showed  me  your  picture." 

"  My  picture  ?  " 

"  Which  he  had  carried  about  with  him  all  these 
years,  and  of  which  I  never  suspected  the  exist- 
ence. I'd  better  begin  at  the  beginning,  Mrs. 
Meredith  ;  it  will  make  it  easier.  Meredith  went 
out  to  there  seek  his  fortune." 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  He  sought,  God  knows,  poor  chap,  he  sought 
it  earnestly  enough,  but  he  didn't  find  it.  He 
had  left  you  in  a  cock-a-hoop  sort  of  way,  pro- 
phesying that  in  a  few  months  there  would  be  a 
palace  ready  to  receive  you.  There  has  never 
been  a  palace,  Mrs.  Meredith.  There  is  a  cor- 
rugated iron  hut  on  the  ranche — which  is  called 
Santa  Clara — but  it  is  no  palace." 

"  It  would  have  been  a  palace  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Meredith,  in  a  broken  voice. 

"  Well,"  Dick  went  on,  "  he  took  it  to  heart. 
He  was  ashamed  to  write  and  own  up  that  he 
had  been  a  failure  out  there  as  he  had  been  a 
failure  over  here.  And  he  drank  more  than  was 
good  for  him," 


128      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  My  poor  Roger  !     It  was  his  one  failing." 

"  Yes,  he  was  his  own  enemy,"  said  Dick. 
"  So  he  went  on,  year  after  year,  and  at  the  end 
of  eight  years  he  had  only  managed  to  scrape  to- 
gether, just  at  the  end  of  that  time,  a  poor  little 
capital,  that  wouldn't  have  been  of  much  good  to 
any  one  unless  pure  chance  had  come  in  and 
turned  it  into  luck.  Then  we  met.  I  had  been 
in  a  cavalry  regiment — my  father  is  a  squire  down 
in  Kent — my  lungs  were  dickey,  the  doctors  told 
me  if  I  didn't  get  into  a  certain  kind  of  climate  I 
shouldn't  live  through  a  second  winter.  They 
recommended  California,  and  I  was  never  an  idle 
beggar,  and  so  I  left  home  and  went  to  try  a 
ranche.  I  was  young,  I  was  green.  I  met  your 
husband.  He  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  I  took  a 
fancy  to  him.  I  put  my  bit  of  capital  together 
with  his  less  bit  of  capital  and  his  experience,  and 
we  threw  in  our  lot  together.  It's  very  hard 
work  is  ranching,  Mrs.  Meredith,  it's  a  process 
of  disillusionment ;  and  we  only  kept  body  and 
soul  together.  I  had  help  once  or  twice  from 
home,  and  at  last  we  turned  the  corner,  and  we 
began  to  think  that  one  day  our  ranche  might  be 
worth  having — as  a  ranche,  you  understand." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  eagerly.     "  Go  on." 

"  Well,  that  year  we  made  a  profit.  It  wasn't 
much — any  farmer  at  home  would  have  turned 
up  his  nose  at  it.  We  didn't ;  and  next  year  we 


Gatehouses.  I29 

made  a  better  profit ;  and  at  the  end  of  last  year, 
when  we  had  put  six  years  of  hard  work  into  our 
ranche  all  the  year  round — work,  mind  you,  not 
just  riding  about  neatly  togged  up  and  giving  an 
order  here  and  an  eye  there,  but  hard,  laborious, 
manual,  back-breaking  labor — then  Fortune 
smiled  upon  us.  We  discovered  oil  on  our  ranche 
— or  the  oil  discovered  the  ranche,  I  should  say, 
for  it  bubbled  up  one  morning,  a  stink  of  paraffin, 
and  Meredith  knew  that  our  fortunes  were  made. 
I  don't  say  that  the  ranche  is  worth  millions,  but 
at  the  end  of  that  year  we  had  ten  thousand 
pounds  to  divide  between  us." 

"  And  then  he  thought  of  nie  ?  " 

"  Then,  Mrs.  Meredith,  I  determined  to  come 
home.  I  had  been  out  seven  years,  I  hadn't  seen 
any  of  my  own  people,  and  the  way  was  perfectly 
clear  for  one  or  both  of  us  to  come  home  for  a 
spell.  I  begged  Meredith  to  come  back  and  stay 
with  my  people,  and  then  he  told  me  about  you." 

The  little  woman  shut  her  eyes  and  leaned  her 
head  back  against  the  chair  in  which  she  was  sit- 
ting. "  He  hadn't  forgotten  me,"  she  said. 

"  No,  he  hadn't  forgotten  you.  But  I  couldn't 
get  him  to  come  back." 

"But  why  not?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Dick,  hesitatingly,  "  that  he 
felt  a  certain  amount  of  reluctance — or  at  least, 
not  exactly  reluctance,  Mrs.  Meredith,  but  a  sense 
9 


X3°     A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

that  he  had  no  right  to  come  home  to  claim  you. 
You  see,  he  had  been  away  fifteen  years  ;  he  hadn't 
written  to  you  for  the  greater  part  of  that  time, 
and  it  was  more  than  possible  that  you  might 
have  married  again." 

"  I  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  surely  Roger  knew 
me  better  than  that." 

"  Well,  he  alternated  between  hopes  and  fears. 
He  felt  somehow  that  you  would  be  as  he  left 
you,  and  yet  again  that  you  might  have  been 
tempted  into  marrying  once  more." 

"  And  if  I  had  ?  " 

"  If  you  had,  I  was  to  find  out  if  you  were 
happy.  He  had  no  wish  to  be  a  second  Enoch 
Arden,  making  things  unpleasant  after  so  long  a 
silence.  If  you  had  married  again — and  you  were 
quite  young  enough  to  have  married  many  times 
over — he  would  have  stayed  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic  forever." 

"  But  you  see  I  am  not  married  again,"  said 
Mrs.  Meredith,  looking  at  him  with  a  triumphant 
smile.  "  I  am  a  little  older,  but  then  so  is  he. 
I  have  not  altered  towards  him  in  the  very  least, 
and  evidently  by  what  you  tell  me  neither  has 
he." 

"  He  is  older,"  said  Dick.  He  felt  that  he 
was  getting  very  near  to  a  disclosure.  His  heart 
beat  to  suffocation.  He  did  not  like  to  look  at 
her.  "  He  is  older,  Mrs.  Meredith.  You  see, 


Gatehouses.  I3l 

he  has  lived  a  hard  wild  life  out  there  ;  not  wild 
in  the  way  of  women,  but  wild  in  the  way  of  hav- 
ing no  refinements,  no  comforts.  From  time  to 
time  he  drank  pretty  hard." 

"  But  the  life  hasn't  told  upon  you,  Mr.  Vin- 
cent," she  said,  deliberately. 

"  No,  not  much.  But  then  I  was  only  three- 
and-twenty  when  I  was  out  there ;  Roger  was 
over  forty." 

He  thought  that  she  would  notice  he  spoke  in 
the  past  tense,  but  she  did  not  do  so. 

"  Then  again,"  he  went  on,  finding  that  she 
did  not  take  the  cue  from  him  as  he  had  intended, 
"  I  have  always  been  a  very  temperate  man  ;  drink 
was  never  a  temptation  to  me.  Drink  leaves  its 
mark  on  a  man  ;  it  left  its  mark  upon  him.  Not 
as  it  would  have  done  if  he  had  been  a  steady 
sort,  and  it  was  not  as  apparent  to  others  as  it 
seemed  to  me.  When  he  began  to  think  of  the 
possibility  of  your  seeing  him  again " 

"  Then  he  did  think  of  the  possibility  ?  " 

"He  did.  He  talked  it  over  with  me  several 
times." 

"  He  wanted  me  ? "  said  the  little  woman, 
eagerly. 

"  He  always  wanted  you,"  said  Dick. 

"  Then,  Mr.  Vincent,  since  my  husband  is  now 
on  the  high-road  to  wealth,  there  is  no  reason  why 
I  shouldn't  sell  up  my  things  here  and  go  out  to 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

California  to  join  him.  I  can  easily  raise  the 
money  for  the  cost  of  our  journey." 

"  So  far  as  that  goes,  Mrs.  Meredith,"  said 
Dick,  "  there's  no  need  for  you  to  think  twice 
about  the  money.  I  told  you  that  Roger  and  I 
had  a  sum  of  ten  thousand  pounds  to  divide  be- 
tween us.  His  half  he  paid  over  into  a  bank  for 
transmission  to  England  in  my  name ;  I  have 
come  over  here  empowered  to  hand  it  to  you — 
that  is  to  say  if  I  found  you  under  circumstances 
in  which  I  could ;  if  you  were  not  married 
again." 

"  Roger — my  husband  sent  me  five  thousand 
pounds  ? " 

"  He  sent  you  five  thousand  pounds.  I've  not 
got  the  papers  on  me,  because  I  don't  think  it 
quite  safe  to  carry  them  about  with  me  ;  but  I  can 
pay  it  over  into  your — into  any  bank  you  like, 
in  a  few  hours." 

"  I  shall  certainly  go  out  to — what  is  the  place 
called  ?  " 

"  It  is  called  Santa  Clara." 

"  Santa  Clara  ?      My  name  is  Clara,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  it  was  called  so  after  you." 

"  I  shall  certainly  go  out,"  said  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith. "  Oh,  my  dear  sir,"  she  burst  out,  "  how 
am  I  ever  to  thank  you  for  the  trouble  you  have 
taken  in  finding  me  out,  in  coming  so  delicately 
to  break  the  news  of  my  great  joy  ?  Do  you 


Gatehouses.  '33 

think — you  have  been  so  good,  I  can  safely  ask 
you  a  question  I  wouldn't  put  to  many  others — 
do  you  think  I  shall  find  myself  welcome  at  Santa 
Clara  ? " 

"  Meredith  lived  on  the  hope  of  your  coming 
out  to  him,"  said  Dick. 

Again  he  spoke  in  the  past  tense ;  again  Mrs. 
Meredith  failed  to  note  the  fact.  By  this  time 
Dick  began  to  feel  himself  in  desperate  straits. 
Here  was  this  little  woman,  and  a  right  pretty 
little  woman  she  was,  too,  ready  for  any  scheme 
which  would  result  in  taking  her  back  to  the  man 
who  had  basely — no,  not  basely,  but  deliberately 
deserted  her. 

Dick  Vincent  had  not  had  a  very  wide  expe- 
rience of  women,  but  he  was  quite  certain  that  if 
his  own  father  had  abandoned  his  mother  to  fifteen 
years  of  absolute  silence,  and  had  shown  himself 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  his  mother  would  have 
had  none  of  him.  He  felt  that  he  might  say  the 
same  of  either  of  his  sisters.  This  little  woman 
seemed  to  feel  nothing  except  that  she  was  at  one 
end  of  a  journey  and  Roger  was  at  the  other; 
that  the  sooner  she  could  make  the  two  ends  meet 
the  better.  He  had  to  break  it  to  her  somehow 
or  other ;  that  it  was  no  use  her  going  out  to 
Santa  Clara,  that  the  money  had  come  too  late, 
that  there  was  no  Meredith  at  the  other  end  of 
the  journey. 


J34     A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  My  daughter,"  Mrs.  Meredith  said,  break- 
ing in  upon  his  thoughts — "  I  have  a  daughter, 
you  know  ;  she  is  eighteen — nearly  nineteen,  in 
fact ;  she  will  be  in  presently.  I  am  perfectly  cer- 
tain that  she  will  be  as  eager  as  I  am  to  go  out 
and  begin  an  entirely  new  life  in  a  new  country. 
We  have  been  very  happy  here  ;  I  think  we  have 
the  respect  of  everybody  in  Gatehouses.  We 
visit  at  the  vicarage  ;  we  are  quite,  in  a  modest 
way,  in  society  ;  but  when  you  have  only  about 
three  pounds  a  week,  and  you  have  to  keep  up  a 
decent  appearance  on  that,  it  is  very  poor  fun 
being  in  a  kind  of  society.  It's  a  narrow  life — a 
pinching  life.  I  don't  say  that  we  haven't  been 
happy  together,  because  my  girl  is  everything 
that  the  most  exacting  mother  could  desire  ;  good 
as  gold,  and  unselfish  to  a  degree.  She  doesn't 
remember  her  father  ;  she  will  be  so  glad  to  find 
him — almost,  I  think,  as  glad  as  I  am." 

"  Mrs.  Meredith,"  said  Dick,  "  I  haven't  quite 
told  you  everything." 

"  But  you  have  told  me  enough,"  she  rejoined, 
"more  than  enough  to  make  me  eager  and  anx- 
ious to  go  out  and  see  my  husband  in  his  own 
home,  in  the  home  that  he  has  put  together,  he 
and  you,  with  years  of  hard,  almost  unrewarded 
toil." 

"  You  wouldn't  like  it,"  said  Dick.  "  Santa 
Clara  is  no  place  for  a  lady." 


Gatehouses.  *35 

His  conscience  smote  him  as  the  words  passed 
his  lips,  for  he  remembered  how  persistently  he 
had  buoyed  up  Roger  Meredith  with  his  pictures 
of  the  difference  that  a  lady  would  make  to  Santa 
Clara. 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  it,"  she  exclaimed.  "  So 
would  my  girl.  You  mustn't  misunderstand  my 
life  here,  we  are  not  like  two  women  who  have 
lived  in  the  lap  of  luxury.  And  by  all  accounts 
Roger  will  have  plenty  of  money  now  from  this 
oil  well  of  yours,  so  that  the  place,  (even  if  it  is 
rather  rough,  can  be  improved  and  made  more 
like  a  home.  I  am  not  a  useless  fine  lady,  Mr. 
Vincent.  I  can  do  anything.  I  can  cook,  I  can 
carpenter,  I  can  house-paint,  I  can  do  anything." 

"  I  didn't  quite  mean  that,"  said  Dick. 
"  There's  money  enough  and  to  spare  now,  but 
you  think  it's  a  wild,  free,  happy,  joyous,  devil- 
may-care  sort  of  life  out  there.  It  isn't.  It's 
very  sordid  ;  it's  hard  work  all  the  time  ;  even  at 
the  best — even  with  an  oil  well.  There's  nothing 

D 

romantic  about   California ;  it's   the  grave   of  all 
hopes ! " 


X36     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

TOLD  AT  LAST. 

As  Dick  uttered  the  words,  "  It's  the  grave  of 
all  hopes,"  Mrs.  Meredith  looked  at  him  fixedly. 

"  The  grave  of  all  hopes ! "  she  repeated. 
"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  don't  say  that 
some  of  my  hopes  have  not  been  buried  there 
these  fifteen  years,  it  wouldn't  be  true  if  I  did  ; 
but  they  are  not  all  buried,  Mr.  Vincent.  Roger 
is  there  ;  Roger  has  (  struck  ile' ;  Roger  has  sent 
home  a  fortune.  Don't  say  that  it's  the  grave  of 
all  hopes." 

"  I  do  say  it,"  said  Dick.  "  1  know  that  we 
shan't  want  money  in  the  future,  whatever  else  we 
may  want." 

"  You  are  keeping  something  back  from  me. 
Is — you  don't  want  me  to  take  this  journey  ?  " 

"  I  don't !  "  he  said  candidly. 

"  Why  not  ?  Didn't  you  tell  me  Roger  wanted 
me?" 

"  I  did." 

"  Mr.  Vincent,  did  he  come  with  you  after  all  ? 
Is  he  in  England  ?  Is  he  in — Blankhampton  ? 
Is  he  in  that  cab  that  is  waiting  at  the  door  ? " 


Told  at  Last.  137 

"  No,  Mrs.  Meredith,  Roger  is  not  in  England. 
Roger  is  not  in  California." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  know  how  to  tell  you,"  he  said, 
very  gravely. 

"  To  tell  me  ?  What  ?  Not  that  Roger  is 
dead  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  can't  tell  you  anything  else." 

"  Dead ! "  she  repeated  the  word  like  one 
stunned.  "  After  all  these  years  to  find  him  only  to 
lose  him  again  in  the  same  moment.  Oh,  oh, 
how  hard  life  is  !  When  did  he  die  ?  Tell  me 
about  it.  Don't  leave  out  a  single  detail ;  tell 
me  everything." 

"  Well,  I'll  begin  at  the  beginning.  As  I  told 
you,  Roger  was  most  anxious  that  I  should  trace 
you  out ;  that  I  should  find  you,  alive  or  dead. 
If  alive,  that  I  should  pay  over  the  five  thousand 
pounds  of  which  I  told  you.  I  have  told  you  that 
on  his  part  he  cared  as  much  as  he  had  ever  done, 
but  that  a  sense  of  shame  held  him  back  from 
coming  to  seek  you  out  himself.  He  loved  you 
all  these  years,  but  was  not  sure  that  he  would 
find  a  welcome  now.  I  assured  him  to  the  con- 
trary  " 

"  Oh,  you  good  fellow  !  "  she  cried,  stretching 
out  her  hand. 

Dick  took  the  hand  and  held  it  within  his  own. 
"  I  assured  him.  One  look  at  your  face  was 


!38      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

enough  when  he  showed  me  that  portrait  of  you. 
I  knew  that  you  wouldn't  have  changed ;  you  are 
not  the  kind  of  woman  that  ever  changes.  I 
couldn't  convince  him  ;  I  couldn't  persuade  him 
to  come  home  and  stay  with  my  people  while  I 
made  inquiries.  And  at  last  I  came  without  him. 
He  saw  me  part  of  the  way  down  ;  he  was  very 
moody,  very  unlike  himself  from  the  time  that 
we  left  Santa  Clara.  I  thought  that  he  was  up- 
set with  the  anxiety  of  not  knowing  whether  you 
would  be  the  same  or  not — and  I  believe  that  I 
was  right. 

"  But  when  we  got  down  to  Freeman's  Rock 
he  began  drinking.  I  did  everything  I  could  to 
stop  it ;  I  offered  to  go  back,  but  no,  he  came  on 
with  me  to  Midas  Creek.  He — Oh,  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith, I  did  everything  I  could.  I  took  the  land- 
lord into  my  confidence  ;  I  coaxed  and  threatened 
and  persuaded ;  1  did  everything  possible.  It 
was  useless.  For  two  years  he  hadn't  touched 
anything ;  he  had  been  living  entirely  on  the 
square.  It  might  have  been  the  excitement,  it 
might  have  been  the  temptation  ;  anyway,  one 
evening  when  I  was  down  at  the  store  getting 
something,  he  went  off  his  head.  He  drew  his 
revolver  on — those  that  tried  to  restrain  him, 
and  in  the  scrimmage  that  followed  he  was  shot 
dead." 

"  And  he  is  dead  ?  " 


Told   at   Last.  '39 

"  Mrs.  Meredith,  he  is  dead.  You — you — I 
— words  cannot  express  what  I  feel  in  having  to 
come  and  tell  you  this.  I  don't  know  how  to 
break  it  to  you  ;  I  daresay  I  have  bungled  it ;  we 
men  are  such  fools." 

"  No,  you  have  been  everything  that  is  good 
and  kind." 

"  I  have  tried  to  be,"  said  Dick,  "  and  I  have 
succeeded  none  too  well.  It's  true  that  I  told  Ro- 
ger himself  that  if  you'd  only  come  out  to  Santa 
Clara — and  I  felt  that  I  should  find  you  just  the 
same  and  that  I  could  easily  persuade  you  to 
come  back  with  me — that  you  would  be  the  mak- 
ing of  the  place,  that  you  would  be  the  making 
of  him  and  me,  that  it  would  be  a  home,  that  it 
would  be  a  totally  different  place.  But  now — 
don't  you  understand  ?  Santa  Clara  is  no  place  for 
you.  It  would  be  like  going  to  find  the  husk 
when  the  kernel  had  been  taken  out  of  it." 

He  spoke  excitedly.  The  little  woman,  whose 
hand  he  still  held,  sat  like  a  creature  turned  to 
stone, 

"  Dead  !  "  she  murmured,  "  my  Roger  dead ! 
And  after  all  these  wasted  years,  when  we  might 
have  begun  life  over  again — been  everything  to 
each  other ;  when  the  way  had  been  made  clear  and 
easy.  Oh,  it  is  hard  !  Oh,  how  hard  !  Oh, 
Mr.  Vincent,  Mr.  Vincent,  when  a  woman  loves 
you,  have  faith  in  her  ;  that's  the  great  thing. 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

He  hadn't  faith  enough  in  me.  He  thought  that 
I  was  like  the  woman  of  tradition — a  creature  who 
cared  only  for  the  loaves  and  fishes,  for  the  downy 
cushion,  for  the  way  made  smooth  and  clear. 
Oh,  how  mistaken  !  Didn't  he  understand — had 
he  lived  with  me  for  years  not  to  know  how 
cheerfully  I  would  have  baked  his  bread  and 
cooked  his  meat,  how  I  would  have  toiled  to  make 
the  bare  iron  hut  pretty,  how  I  would  have 
coaxed  the  flowers  to  grow,  and  kept  birds,  and 
loved  the  dogs  and  the  horses  and  everything 
that  had  life  in  it  ?  No,  he  never  knew  me. 
You  knew  me  better  than  he  did.  And  yet 
— he  cared." 

"  Oh,  he  cared,"  said  Dick,  "  there's  no  doubt 
about  that ;  from  first  to  last  you  need  never 
doubt  that  he  cared.  I  think  that  he  cared  so 
much  that  he  was  afraid — his  very  love  made  him 
afraid  ;  it  seemed  too  great  a  thing  to  him  that 
you  should  ever  consent  to  go  half-across  the 
world  to  find  him." 

The  widow  looked  at  him  with  tearless  eyes, 
staring  out  of  her  white  face.  "  I  would  have 
gone  ten  times  round  the  world.  I  would  have 
gone  through  fire  and  water,  to  find  my  husband 
at  the  end  of  the  journey." 

For  a  moment  Dick  could  not  speak.  He 
pressed  the  hand  that  he  still  held  within  his  own, 
then  set  it  free,  and  getting  up  from  his  chair 


Told  at  Last. 

strode  to  the  window,  where  he  stood  looking  out 
over  the  wide  village  street,  at  the  shabby  cab, 
the  sleepy  coachman  and  still  sleepier  horse 
which  was  awaiting  him  at  the  door. 

At  last  he  turned  round.  "  Mrs.  Meredith," 
he  said,  "  after  all,  isn't  it  much  better  that  you 
should  know  that  all  the  time  poor  Roger  was 
thinking  about  you,  that  he  had  never  forgotten 
you,  that  you  had  never  been  supplanted  in  his 
heart  by  any  one  ?  It's  hard  to  find  it  out  only 
when  he  is  dead,  but  still,  it's  better  than  not 
knowing,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  better  than  not  knowing." 

"  Oh,  yes.  And,  of  course,"  he  went  on, 
"  you  needn't  live  such  a  narrow  life  now,  because 
the  half  of  Santa  Clara  is  yours,  and  there  will  be 
plenty  of  money  for  all  of  us  as  time  goes  on. 
You  can  go  away  from  this,  you  can  travel  where 
you  will  ;  everything  will  be  quite  different  to  you 
now." 

"  I  suppose  so."  She  looked  round  the  pretty 
little  room  in  a  scared  kind  of  way.  "  I  wish," 
she  said,  "  I  almost  wish  that  Roger  had  not  sent 
to  me." 

"  Oh,  but  certainty  is  better  than  uncertainty 
any  day." 

"  Not  when  the  certainty  means  the  end  of  all 
your  hopes.  Oh,  Mr.  Vincent,  you  were  right 
when  you  spoke  of  California  as  being  the  grave 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

of  all  hopes.  It  has  proved  itself  the  grave  of 
mine.  Oh,  think  of  the  wives  who  go  on  living 
year  after  year,  tied  to  men  that  they  have  never 
cared  for,  men  who  have  ceased  to  care  for  them ; 
think  of  the  husbands  and  wives  fettered  to  each 
other  like  prisoners  chained  to  a  log,  while  we, 
who  only  wanted  each  other,  were  kept  apart  by 
circumstance — by  Fate.  Oh,  it's  cruel — cruel  ! 
And  then,  when  we  might  be  together,  and  as 
happy  as  ever  we  had  been,  to  find  all  one's  hopes 
dashed  to  the  ground  ;  to  find  the  cup  of  joy 
held  to  one's  lips,  and  dashed  away  before  one 
could  taste  the  draught  it  contained.  Oh,  how 
hard  life  is  !  " 

She  broke  down  and  began  to  sob,  with  tears 
that  wrung  Dick  Vincent's  heart,  with  sobs  that 
penetrated  his  very  soul.  And  then  she  stretched 
out  her  poor  trembling  little  hand  and  laid  it  up- 
on his — the  hand  that  had  brought  Roger  Mere- 
dith's life  to  a  close. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  little  widow  sobbed  un- 
restrainedly on,  and  Dick  sat  there  watching  her 
with  fascinated  gaze,  yet  perfectly  powerless  to 
say  or  do  anything  which  would  be  a  comfort  to 
her.  Then  she  sat  upright  again  and  began  to 
dab  at  her  eyes  fiercely  with  her  handkerchief, 
which  she  had  made  into  a  ball. 

"  I  mustn't  let  Cynthia  find  me  crying  when 
she  comes  in,"  she  explained,  "  No,  I  mustn't 


Told  at   Last.  *43 

let  her  find  me  crying.  Cynthia  is  such  a  good 
girl,  and  she  is  always  tired  when  she  comes  in  at 
tea-time.  Won't  you  send  that  cab  away  and 
stay  until  she  comes  ?  Won't  you  stop  and  have 
tea  with  us  ?  It's — what  is  the  time  ?  " 

"  It's  nearly  four,"  said  he. 

"  She  will  be  home  in  a  few  minutes  then.  She 
comes  immediately  the  school  closes.  It  closes 
at  four.  I  should  like  you  to  see  her.  It  won't 
be  such  a  blow  to  her  as  it  has  been  to  me,  be- 
cause she  has  never  really  known  her  father. 
But  you  will  stop,  won't  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly  I  will  stay.  But  don't 
you  think,  Mrs.  Meredith,  that  if  I  stay  and  have 
a  cup  of  tea  with  you,  you  had  better  come  back 
into  the  town  with  me  and  have  some  dinner  at 
my  hotel  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  go  out  merry-making,"  said  she, 
shrinking  back. 

"  Oh,  it  wouldn't  be  merry-making.  And 
whatever  one's  griefs,  one  must  eat.  I  have 
photographs,  of  a  sort,  of  Santa  Clara  ;  you  would 
like  to  see  them.  The  change  would  be  good  for 
you.  At  all  events,  I'll  keep  my  old  cabman,  in 
case  you  want  to  go  into  Blankhampton  later  on. 
I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do ;  I'll  tell  him  to  put  up 
for  an  hour." 

As  soon  as  said  carried  into  effect.  Dick  Vin- 
cent went  out  and  told  the  old  cabman  that  he 


*44      A  Matter   of  Sentiment. 

was  to  go  to  the  inn  and  get  himself  a  drink,  and 
a  feed,  if  necessary,  for  the  horse. 

"  Come  back  at  five  o'clock,"  he  said.  "  Come 
back  here.  Here's  the  money  for  you.  At  five. 
Don't  be  much  later." 

"All  right,  sir,"  said  the  old  driver.  "I'll 
give  my  horse  a  bit  of  a  feed,  and,  since  your 
honor  is  so  generous,  I'll  take  a  bit  of  a  snack 
myself." 

Then  Vincent  turned  and  went  back  into  the 
house  again.  As  he  entered  the  sitting-room, 
something  reminded  him  of  the  newspaper  which 
he  had  in  his  breast  pocket. 

"  You  will  perhaps  like  to  see  this,  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith," he  said,  taking  it  out  and  folding  it  so  as 
to  show  the  account  of  Meredith's  death.  "  It's 
the  paper  that  had  the  account  of  poor  Meredith's 
end.  I  thought  you  would  like  to  see  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  let  me  see  it."  She  read  it  eagerly. 
"  Oh,  what  a  verdict !  How  strange  !  What 
curious  creatures  men  are  when  they  get  on  a  jury. 
And  they  called  a  death  which  was  brought  about 
by  drink  the  *  Visitation  of  God  '  !  Mr.  Vincent, 
somehow  I  can't  think  of  Roger  like  that.  I 
have  seen  him  a  little  merry,  you  know,  just  a 
little,  when  he  had  a  little  too  much,  but  I  never 
saw  him  drunk,  never.  By  this  account  he  could 
not  have  known  what  he  was  doing  ;  he  must 
have  been  delirious." 


Told  at   Last.  H5 

"  And  so  he  was — delirious.  He  was  mad  for 
the  moment — he  was  out  of  his  mind  for  the 
time." 

"  He  must  have  been.  It's  dreadful  to  think 
of  him  like  that.  Do  you  think,  if  I  had  gone 
out  there,  that  I  should  have  kept  him  straight  ?  " 

"  For  a  time,"  said  Dick.  "  Anybody  who 
devoted  herself  to  him  would  and  could  for  a 
time  keep  him  straight.  I  did  as  long  as  I  was 
with  him,  as  long  as  I  watched  him,  as  long  as  I 
kept  a  tight  hand  over  him.  So  you  would  have 
done.  But  there  is  a  fate  in  these  matters,  Mrs. 
Meredith.  I  believe  myself  that  Roger's  hour 
was  come  ;  that  it  had  to  be ;  and  it  was  the  fore- 
shadowing of  the  end  that  made  him  so  strange 
and  so  unlike  himself  from  the  moment  that  we 
turned  our  backs  upon  Santa  Clara." 

The  little  woman  was  restless  and  excited. 
She  wandered  about  the  room,  put  imaginary  un- 
tidiness into  order,  went  several  times  to  the  win- 
dow, and  finally,  murmuring  something  about 
seeing  after  tea,  departed  and  left  him  alone. 

That  to  Dick  was  worse  than  if  she  had  re- 
mained sobbing  and  crying  ;  because  alone  it  sud- 
denly occurred  to  him  that  if  Meredith's  widow 
had  accepted  his  story  without  question,  had  in- 
deed put  no  questions  to  him  beyond  the  alt-impor- 
tant one  to  her  of  the  state  of  Meredith's  heart 
so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  her  daughter  might 
10 


X4*>      A   Matter   of  Sentiment. 

prove  to  be  a  young  woman  of  a  very  different 
calibre.  What  if  she  were  to  cross-question  him 
as  to  the  last  details  of  her  father's  life  and  the 
circumstances  of  his  death  ?  What  if  she  were  to 
put  certain  point-blank  queries  to  him  concerning 
the  fatal  scrimmage  ?  How  could  he  answer  ? 
What  could  he  say  ? 

Would  the  girl  never  come  ?  The  church 
clock — he  could  hear  it,  although  he  could  not 
see  the  church — struck  the  quarter  after  the  hour. 
She  was  never  so  late  as  this.  Stay  !  what  was 
that  ?  A  step — a  lifting  of  the  door-latch — and 
Roger  Meredith's  daughter  stood  before  him. 


Cynthia.  "47 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

CYNTHIA. 

WHEN  the  door  opened  to  admit  Roger  Mere- 
dith's daughter,  Dick  Vincent  perceived  with  a 
great  start  that  she  was  no  other  than  the  girl  who 
had  so  impressed  him  the  previous  day  in  St. 
Thomas's  Street. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  stammered. 

She,  too,  was  evidently  somewhat  taken  aback, 
although  Dick  could  not  decide  whether  she  had 
noticed  him  the  previous  day  or  not. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  am  afraid  I  startled 
you,"  said  he. 

"  Oh,  no.  Of  course  I  didn't  know  there  was 
anybody  here." 

She  paused,  looking  at  him  as  if  expecting  him 
to  say  something  more. 

"  I  came  to  see  your  mother,"  said  Dick  ;  "  and 
to  see  you,  too." 

"Yes." 

At  this  moment  the  widow  came  back.  As  she 
caught  sight  of  her  daughter  she  rushed  up  to  her, 
flung  her  arms,, not  about  her  neck,, because  she 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

could  not  reach  so  high — but  about  her  shoulders. 
"  Oh,  Cynthia,  Cynthia,  it  has  come  at  last !  "  she 
said,  sobbing. 

"  What  has  come,  mother  ?  The  news  about 
my  father  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dearest.  The  best  news  and  the  worst 
news  ;  the  worst  news  and  the  best.  He  is  dead, 
Cynthia— dead !  " 

"  My  father  dead  ?  "  The  girl's  voice  was  an 
echo  of  her  mother's.  "  Poor  little  mother  !  " 
she  said.  "  How  do  you  know  ?  Of  course," 
turning  to  Dick,  "  you  brought  the  news.  Oh,  my 

mother    has   waited   so    long.     Why    didn't    he 

?» 

"  Not  for  any  fault,  Cynthia,"  cried  Mrs. 
Meredith.  "  Not  for  any  fault,  my  dear.  Mr. 
Vincent  says  I  was  as  much  to  him,  to  the  last 
day,  as  I  had  ever  been.  And  I  don't  know  how 
to  tell  you  all,  but  they  lived  on  in  a  struggle. 
Dear  Mr.  Vincent  was  his  partner.  They  fought 
and  struggled  against — against  hope  ;  and  then, 
when  the  good  fortune  came  and  there  was  money, 
your  father  didn't  know — wasn't  sure — that  J 
should  have  waited  for  him." 

The  girl  put  her  arm  protectingly  about  her 
mother's  shoulders  and  turned  so  as  to  confront 
Dick.  "  Of  course  my  mother  waited.  He 
ought  to  have  known  that,"  she  said,  with  a  curi- 
ous protective  kind  of  pity.  "  My  mother  is 


Cynthia.  *49 

one  of  those  women  who  couldn't  forget  if  she 
tried — fidelity  itself.  Did  he  really  think  that  ?  " 

"Your  father  thought,"  said  Dick,  "  that  it  was 
not  impossible  that  your  mother  might  have  mar- 
ried again.  You  see,  so  many  years  had  gone  by 
and  he  had  never  written,  and  life  isn't  very  safe 
in  the  wild  parts  where  he  was.  A  man  might 
be  killed  twenty  times  over,  and  his  relatives  hear 
nothing  except  by  the  purest  chance.  Nobody 
could  have  blamed  your  mother  if  she  had  mar- 
ried again." 

"  I  had  my  chances,"  remarked  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith, plaintively. 

"  Of  course.  That  was  what  Meredith  felt. 
He  knew  you  wouldn't  be  without  chances,  being 
what  you  are." 

"  Still,"  the  girl  burst  out,  "  it  would  have 
been  a  horrible  thing  if  mother  had  married  again. 
Of  course,  you  never  thought  of  such  a  thing,  did 
you,  mother  ?  " 

"  Never,  my  dear — never.  There  was  only 
one  man  in  the  world  for  me,  and  he  loved  me 
when  I  was  little  more  than  a  girl.  And  I  shall 
never  see  him  again — never  !  " 

The  girl  held  her  mother  close  for  a  minute  or 
so.  "  Tell  me,"  she  said,  turning  to  Dick  ;  "  how 
did  my  father  die  ?  Was  he  ill  long  ?  " 

"  Your  father  was  not  ill,"  said  Dick,  ff  except 
in  a  sense.  He  was — well,  he  was  killed." 


J5°      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"How?" 

"  Well — I  suppose  you  wish  me  to  tell  Miss 
Meredith  everything  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  keep  nothing  back  from  Cynthia ; 
she  understands.  I  told  her  all  that  there  was  to 
know  in  the  past,  and  there's  no  reason  why  she 
should  not  know  all  that  there  is  to  know  in  the 
present." 

"  Well,  Miss  Meredith,  your  father  drank  a 
good  deal  ;  not  continuously,  you  know,  but  at 
times.  When  I  came  away  from  Santa  Clara " 

"  Santa  Clara  ?  "  said  the  girl,  looking  at  her 
mother. 

"  Yes.  We  were  partners  on  a  ranche  ;  it  was 
named  after  your  mother.  I  fancy  that  the  mere 
fact  of  being  left  alone  for  a  few  months,  and  the 
fact  also  that  he  had  commissioned  me  to  make 
inquiries  about  your  mother  and  you — to  find  out 
where  you  were,  if  you  were  living,  whether  your 
mother  was  still  Mrs.  Meredith,  and  whether 
there  was  any  chance  of  her  coming  out  to  join 
him — proved  too  much  for  him,  for  he  went  in 
for  a  fearful  bout  of  heavy  drinking,  and  in  spite 

of  everything  that  we  could  do Well,  he  ran 

amok  ;  in  short,  he  tried  to  kill  a  man  staying  in 
the  hotel,  who,  in  sheer  self-defense,  finding  him- 
self overpowered,  shot  him." 

"  What  happened  to  the  man  ?  "  said  the  girl. 

"  Nothing  happened  to  the  man,"  replied  Dick. 


Cynthia. 


"  Nothing  could  happen  ;  he  was  perfectly  blame- 
less in  the  matter.  It  was  a  question  of  his  life 
or  your  father's  ;  and  no  man  could  be  expected 
to  give  up  his  life  at  the  mad  freak  of  a  man  de- 
lirious with  drink." 

"  No,  you  are  quite  right.  What  is  his  name  ? 
Who  is  he  ?  " 

"He  disappeared  from  the  hotel,  by  the  advice 
of  the  landlord  and  several  other  people.  They 
thought  it  would  be  the  easiest  way  out  of  the 
difficulty." 

"  Had  you  ever  met  him  before  ?  Was  he  a 
stranger  ?  Did  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  I  never  met  him,"  said  Dick.  "  I  was  down 
the  town  when  the  row  began  ;  I  only  came  in 
for  the  tail-end  of  it.  It  was  horrible  !"  he  said, 
"  horrible  !  I  brought  your  mother  the  paper 
with  what  I  may  call  the  official  account  of  the 
affair,  and  I  have  also  with  me  a  large  sum  which 
your  father  entrusted  to  my  care,  to  make  over 
to  your  mother  if  I  should  find  her.  I  have  also 
in  safe  keeping  your  father's  will,  by  which,  in  the 
event  of  my  finding  you,  he  leaves  the  half  of  the 
ranche  to  your  mother.  To-morrow  I  shall  be 
able  to  transfer  this  money  to  your  account,  Mrs. 
Meredith  ;  to-day  it  is,  of  course,  too  late." 

"  He  has  been  very  kind,  Cynthia,  most  con- 
siderate. I'm  sure  if  I  had  known  him  all  his 
life  he  could  not  have  broken  the  news  to  m« 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

more  gently  and  more  tenderly.  I  can't  help 
breaking  down  a  little  ;  it's  a  blow  to  me, 
although  I  haven't  seen  Roger  for  fifteen  weary 
years — fifteen  weary  years." 

Roger  Meredith's  daughter  made  no  pretense 
of  being  overcome  with  grief.  She  held  her 
mother  yet  closer  to  her,  with  the  same  protec- 
tive air  that  had  so  touched  Dick  before. 
Dearest,"  she  said,  "  I  know  what  this  disappoint- 
ment must  be  to  you,  and  what  a  grief;  but 
certainty  is  better  than  uncertainty  all  the  world 
over,  and  when  you  have  got  over  it  a  little 
you  will  be  comforted  to  think  that  all  the  time, 
when  you  thought  he  had  forgotten,  he  hadn't 
forgotten  at  all,  that  he  remembered  you  to  the 
very  last,  and  that  his  last  reasonable  act  was  to 
send  you  part  of  the  good  fortune  which  had 
come  to  him." 

"  Not  a  part  of  it,  Cynthia,  all  of  it,"  sobbed 
Mrs.  Meredith,  hiding  her  face  on  the  girl's 
shoulder. 

"  Yes,  dear,  all  of  it.  That's  twice  as  happy 
for  you  as  if  he  had  sent  you  a  part.  It  would 
have  been  very  different  if  he  had  merely  sent 
you  word  that  he  had  come  into  luck  and  that 
you  could  go  out  and  share  it.  But  to  send  it 
home,  for  you  to  do  as  you  liked,  to  give  you 
all  and  leave  you  free,  that's  proof  that  he  must 
have  loved  you  just  the  same  all  the  time." 


Cynthia.  '53 

"  There  was  no  shadow  of  doubt  about  his  love, 
Miss  Meredith,"  said  Dick.  "  It  was  the  fear 
that  your  mother  wouldn't  come  out  to  him  that 
sent  him  off  on  that  last  fatal  bout  of  drinking. 
Mind  you,  he  didn't  drink  as  a  regular 
thing  ;  he  was  a  splendid  fine  man  to  the  end." 

"  I'm  sure  he  was,"  said  Cynthia.  "  If  he 
hadn't  some  good  qualities,  my  mother  wouldn't 
have  loved  him  as  truly  and  as  faithfully  as  she 
has  done  during  all  these  years  of  silence." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Dick. 
I  have  known  some  charming  women  who  pinned 
their  whole  faith  to  wretches  in  whom  I  could 
see  no  point  of  good.  And  the  worse  they  got 
the  more  their  women  stuck  to  them  and  clung 
to  them  and  bolstered  them  up.  You  see  a 
good  deal  of  that  sort  of  thing  out  there,  you 
know." 

"  But  my  father  wasn't  like  that,"  said  Cynthia, 
"  no,  not  at  all  like  that." 

"  Cynthia,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  suddenly, 
"  I  came  in  to  tell  Mr.  Vincent  that  tea  was 
ready.  It  will  be  over-drawn." 

"  Never  mind,  dear,  we'll  brew  a  fresh  pot." 

It  was  perhaps  natural  that  the  girl  should  take 
the  lead  in  everything.  Dick  Vincent  followed 
her  into  the  little  dining-room,  across  the  passage, 
with  a  feeling  that  she  was  the  dominant  power 
in  the  house.  But  he  was  mistaken.  The  same 


'$4       A 

power  and  self-control  which  had  enabled  a  young 
and  pretty  woman  to  remain  faithful  to  the 
memory  of  a  man  who  had,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  deliberately  deserted  her  sufficed  to 
make  Mrs.  Meredith  the  most  important  factor 
in  the  little  household.  At  the  moment  she  was 
overwhelmed,  even  crushed,  by  the  news  of  her 
husband's  death,  and  by  the  important  fact  that 
from  that  moment  her  circumstances  would  be 
entirely  different  to  what  they  had  been  since  the 
beginning  of  her  married  life. 

"  Cynthia,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  when  she  had 
been  somewhat  pulled  together  by  a  good  cup  of 
tea,  "  we  will  go  out  to  Santa  Clara." 

Dick's  heart  went  down  to  zero,  and  he  waited 
with  no  small  trepidation  to  hear  what  the  girl 
would  say. 

"  Just  as  you  like,  mother.  I'd  as  soon  go  to 
Santa  Clara  as  to  any  other  part  of  the  world. 
We've  lived  such  a  quiet  life  here  in  Gatehouses," 
she  said,  turning  to  Dick,  "  that  it  would  be  no 
wrench  to  us  to  leave  the  half-dozen  friends  who 
have  never  been  much  more  than  acquaintances." 

"  You  won't  like  it,"  said  Dick  to  the  widow. 

"  Oh,  1  should  love  it,"  she  cried.  "  I  should 
feel  as  if  I  had  gone  to  join  Roger  after  all." 

"  I  don't  think  you  would.  It's  a  ghastly  life  ; 
full  of  hard  work,  very  few  recreations,  no  com- 
fort." 


Cynthia.  '55 

"  We  shall  be  able  to  have  comfort,"  said  Mrs. 
Meredith,  confidently. 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  to  Santa 
Clara  to  get  it.  As  a  ranche,  it  isn't  worth 
having  ;  as  an  oil  well  it  doesn't  need  the  pres- 
ence of  ladies  to  run  it.  You  would  hate  it.  I 
have  not  any  intention,  now  that  Meredith's  gone, 
of  going  back  permanently." 

"  But  we  should  like  it,"  persisted  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith. "  Cynthia  isn't  like  the  ordinary  society 
girl ;  she  has  no  society  to  leave  behind  here, 
nothing  but  a  recollection  of  hard  toil,  many  hu- 
miliations, and  few  pleasures.  Above  all  things 
we  should  like  to  go  to  Santa  Clara  and  carry  on 
the  ranche,  just  as  we  should  have  done  if  my  dear 
Roger  had  lived  and  I  had  gone  out  there  to  re- 
join him." 

"  Mrs.  Meredith,"  said  Dick,  and  by  this  time 
he  was  feeling  no  less  than  desperate,  "  it  is  abso- 
lutely impossible  for  you  to  continue  the  ranche 
as  my  partner.  You  are  not  fit  for  the  life,  and 
the  life  is  not  fit  for  you.  As  Meredith's  wife  it 
would  have  been  a  different  matter  altogether ;  as 
my  partner  it  is  an  impossibility." 

"  But  I  should  like  to  go  out,"  she  persisted. 

fc  We  must  leave  that  for  the  present,"  said 
Dick,  "  because  I  am  not  going  back  for  at  least 
three  months.  I  have  left  an  excellent  manager 
there,  a  good  fellow,  who  was  chosen  mainly  by 


T56       A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

your  husband,  and  in  whom  he  had  the  greatest 
confidence.  It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  hurry 
back,  and  I  have  not  been  home  for  seven  years. 
My  mother  would  break  her  heart  if  I  went  back 
immediately.  I  shall  never  stay  seven  years  at 
Santa  Clara  again.  I  may  not  give  the  ranche 
up  ;  I  may  come  to  some  arrangement  with  you 
by  which  we  can  continue  it  as  a  property — an  oil 
property  ;  but  I  shall  never  make  Santa  Clara  my 
home  again — indeed,  there  will  be  no  need." 


The  Voice  of  Reason.       1S7 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  VOICE  OF  REASON. 

IT  was  Cynthia  Meredith  who  brought  the  dis- 
cussion concerning  the  advisability  of  her  mother 
and  herself  going  to  Santa  Clara  to  a  close. 

"  One  thing  is  very  certain,  dear  mother,"  she 
said.  "  We  cannot  go  to  California  now ;  we 
have  everything  to  settle  up  here  ;  for  in  any  case 
you  will  not  care  to  remain  in  Gatehouses,  or 
even  in  Blankhampton.  You  know,  Mr.  Vin- 
cent," she  went  on,  "  that  I  am  the  mistress  at 
the  infant  school  here.  The  term  comes  to  an 
end  this  week,  and  then  I  am  free.  As,  naturally, 
I  shall  not  continue  the  post,  I  shall  be  very 
busy  getting  everything  ready  to  leave,  and  I 
shall  give  in  my  resignation  to  the  Vicar  at  once." 

"  Of  course  !  of  course  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith. "  I  always  hated  your  doing  it,  Cynthia,  as 
you  know." 

"  There  was  no  reason  why  you  should,  dear- 
est," said  Cynthia.  "  It's  not  a  hard  way  of  mak- 
ing a  decent  living — at  least,  darling,  not  of  mak- 
ing a  living,  but  of  supplementing  a  living." 


!58      A   Matter  of  Sentiment 

"  You  have  been  very  brave,"  cried  Mrs. 
Meredith,  sobs  beginning  to  rise  in  her  throat. 

"Well,  it's  all  over  now,  dear,"  said  Cynthia, 
hurriedly,  "  and  as  we've  got  the  half  of  an  oil 
well  to  depend  upon,  it  needn't  trouble  you  that 
I  worked  for  a  few  months  among  a  lot  of  nice 
little  children  like  these  Gatehouses  mites.  It 
will  never  trouble  me,"  she  cried,  looking  from 
one  to  another  with  a  ringing  laugh. 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  Dick,  half  indig- 
nantly. 

"  But  what  does  trouble  me,"  said  the  girl, 
"  or  at  least  what  does  concern  me,  is  that  I  want 
to  have  a  long  holiday.  I  want  to  get  used  to 
being  well  off  and  to  rest  myself;  to — well,  I'd 
like  to  go  to  some  nice,  bright  seaside  place  for  a 
few  weeks  before  I  even  think  about  taking  a 
journey  half-way  across  the  world." 

"  I  think  you  are  most  wise,"  said  Dick. 
"  And  if  you  will  excuse  me  saying  so,  Miss 
Meredith,  your  mother  must  need  that  kind  of 
relaxation  much  more  than  you  do.  So  let  us 
consider  the  question  of  your  going  to  Santa 
Clara  as  shelved  for  the  present." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  start  to-night,"  said  Mrs. 
Meredith,  with  some  show  of  spirit. 

"  No,  dear,  no  ;  of  course  we  knew  that,"  said 
Cynthia.  She  was  all  tender  compunction  at 
having  seemed  to  be  unkind  to  her  mother. 


The  Voice   of  Reason.       T59 

"  To-night,"  said  Dick,  "  you  are  coming  to 
dine  with  me  in  Blankhampton.  You  promised, 
did  you  not  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  promised,"  said  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith. 

"It  would  be  better  for  you  than  brooding," 
said  Dick. 

"  Well,"  put  in  Cynthia,  "  dear  mother,  1  think 
it  might  take  you  out  of  yourself  a  little.' 

"  After  any  sort  of  ill  news,"  said  Dick, "  there's 
nothing  like  a  thoroughly  good  meal ;  and  no 
meal  taken  in  one's  own  house  has  the  same  effect 
upon  one  as  a  meal  which  is  taken  outside.  After 
all,  Mrs.  Meredith,  it  will  be  a  very  quiet  even- 
ing, and  there  can  be  no  more  in  your  coming 
and  dining  quite  quietly  with  me  at  the  Golden 
Swan  than  by  taking  a  cup  of  tea  with  you  this 
afternoon.  I  have  kept  the  cab — at  least,  I  told 
the  driver  to  come  back.  If  you  would  rather,  I 
will  go  up  to  the  inn  and  tell  him  to  keep  his 
horse  in  the  stable  for  another  hour ;  otherwise 
it  will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Oh,  well,  we  shall  certainly  not  be  ready 
in  a  few  minutes,"  said  Cynthia.  "  I  con- 
fess, mother,  that  I  should  very  much  like  to 
dine  with  Mr.  Vincent  to-night ;  I  feel  all  un- 
hinged— everything  turned  topsyturvy ;  and  I 
am  quite  sure  that  it  would  be  the  best  possible 
thing  for  you.  And,  indeed,  I  do  think  it  is 
most  kind  of  Mr.  Vincent  to  ask  us." 


160     A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  kind,"  said  Dick.  "  On  the  con- 
trary, the  kindness  is  yours  in  giving  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  society.  You  forget,  Miss 
Meredith,  your  father  and  I  lived  together  for 
seven  years.  We  were  the  greatest  possible 
friends — regular  pals.  To  me  it  is  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  that  I  should  see  as 
much  of  you  now  as  I  should  have  done  if  he  had 
lived,  dear  old  fellow." 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Cynthia,  simply,  "  that 
mother  and  I  are  delighted  to  have  your  friend- 
ship. Of  course,  we  have  not  many  friends.  I 
think,"  she  went  on,  with  a  wise  little  air,  "  that 
when  people  are  poor  they  do  not  have  many 
friends,  unless — unless  they  belong  to  the  quite 
poor  classes  !  I  mean  unless  they  belong  quite 
to  the  working  class.  Nobody  wants  struggling 
poverty." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Dick,  "  I  think  it  de- 
pends a  good  deal  on  the  struggler." 

As  he  spoke  a  sudden  qualm  shot  through  his 
heart,  a  sudden  realization  that  this  young  girl, 
with  her  limpid  blue  eyes  and  calm,  self-reliant 
manner,  would  be  desirable  to  any  man,  and  under 
any  circumstances.  A  sort  of  wonder  passed 
through  his  mind  that  she  could  have  walked  about 
the  streets  of  Blankhampton,  as  he  had  himself 
seen  her  the  previous  day,  and  have  remained  un- 
wooed,  or  at  least  unwon,  in  the  little  cottage  in 


The  Voice  of  Reason. 

Gatehouses  in  which  they  were  now  sitting. 
Then  he  shook  himself  free  of  the  dream,  and 
addressed  himself  once  more  to  the  mother. 

"  Then  you  will  come  and  dine  with  me,  Mrs. 
Meredith  ? " 

"  Well,  since  you  and  Cynthia  both  wish 
it,  and,  as  you  say,  the  circumstances  are  excep- 
tional," she  replied,  "  I  don't  mind,  but  we  can- 
not go  just  now,  can  we,  Cynthia  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  We  must  have  time  to  change  our 
dresses.  You  had  better  go  up  to  the  inn,  as 
you  said." 

"  Shall  I  say  six  o'clock  ?  "  said  Dick. 

"  Yes,  that  is  nearly  an  hour.  Oh,"  glancing 
towards  the  window,  "  there  he  is." 

Dick  Vincent  got  up.  "  It  doesn't  in  the  least 
matter.  I  will  send  him  back  to  the  hotel  and  tell 
him  to  order  dinner  for  us." 

It  was  as  quickly  done  as  said.  Dick  went  out, 
and  told  the  old  driver  to  go  back  to  the  Golden 
Swan  and  tell  the  people  there  that  he  would  be 
bringing  two  ladies  back  to  dinner  with  him. 
"  Tell  them,"  said  Dick,  "  to  give  us  a  very  nice 
dinner,  the  sort  of  dinner  ladies  like ;  and  to 
get  good  fruit,  and  so  on.  Stay,  I'll  give  you 
a  card.  Then  come  back  here  about  half-past 
six." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  the  cabman. 

"  You  won't  fail  to  come  back  ? " 
II 


i62       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Lor',  no,  sir." 

"  Don't  you  go  taking  any  other  job.  I'll  pay 
for  your  time." 

"  Right  you  are,  sir." 

And  away  he  went,  and  Dick  turned  and  went 
into  the  house  again. 

If  he  had  admired  Cynthia  in  her  little  gray  frock 
of  the  previous  day,  and  in  the  simple  black  skirt 
and  cotton  blouse  that  she  had  been  wearing  that 
afternoon,  his  admiration  was  increased  tenfold 
when  she  came  down  into  the  little  sitting-room 
dressed  in  a  clean  white  muslin  gown. 

"  Mr.  Vincent,"  she  said,  "  I  am  so  glad  you 
have  made  mother  go  out  to-night.  She  would 
only  have  sat  and  cried  and  brooded  over  the 
past ;  and,  after  all,  what  good  can  it  do  ?  " 

"  No  good  at  all,"  said  Dick. 

"  It's  no  use  my  pretending,"  the  girl  went  on, 
"  that  I  am  overwhelmed  with  grief.  I  am  aw- 
fully sorry  for  mother,  but  I  don't  remember  my 
father  at  all ;  and  the  fact  that  one's  got  a  father 
somewhere  makes  very  little  difference  to  one's 
state  of  mind.  I  am  sorry  for  my  poor  darling, 
and  yet  in  one  way  I  am  so  glad  that  she  should 
know  that  she  should  feel  that  all  the  time  he  was 
just  as  fond  of  her  as  ever.  It  seems  a  queer  sort 
of  way  for  a  man  to  treat  his  wife,  doesn't  it  ? 
Everybody  treat  their  wives  differently." 

"  Or  their  husbands,"  said  Dick.     "  I   mean 


The  Voice   of  Reason.       l63 

every  one  of  us  looks  at  every  situation  of  life 
from  a  different  standpoint  to  everybody  else.  If 
I  were  married  now,"  he  went  on,  "  and  I  fell 
upon  evil  days,  I  should  stick  to  my  wife,  and  I 
should  expect  my  wife  to  stick  to  me ;  and  if  I 
were  obliged  to  leave  her  behind,  as  your  father 
seems  to  have  done,  I  should  write  to  her  every 
mail ;  and  as  soon  as  I  had  scraped  the  money 
together  to  pay  for  her  passage,  I  should  say, 
f  Come  along  ;  share  what  I  have.'  But  he  was 
different.  He  had  always  that  dreadful  tempta- 
tion of  strong  drink.  Before  I  knew  him,  seven 
years  ago,  he  drank  frightfully  hard ;  he  drank 
everything  that  he  made  :  and  I  think  he  was 
ashamed  to  let  her  know  just  how  things  were. 
I  am  quite  sure  that  at  the  last  he  was  afraid  that 
he  had  so  indelibly  written  *  Drunkard  '  on  his 
face  that  it  would  turn  your  mother  against  him 
if  they  met." 

"  And  was  he  ? — did  he  look  ? — I   mean " 

"  No,  he  didn't.  He  was  weather-beaten. 
He  was  a  man  who  had  lived  hard.  But  was  a 
splendid  man,  and  an  intensely  attractive  man  to 
the  very  last.  I  don't  believe  she  would  have 
seen  a  flaw  in  him,  or  noticed  that  he  was  the 
least  little  bit  changed — not  now  that  I  have  seen 
her.  I  told  him  so.  I  went  by  common-sense. 
But  I  couldn't  convince  him ;  no,  poor  chap,  I 
couldn't  convince  him," 


l64       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Here's  mother,"  said  the  girl,  in  an  undertone. 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  dressed  in  black.  For 
years  she  had  always  worn  black,  as  being  both 
economical  and  in  accordance  with  her  uncertainty 
concerning  her  husband.  She  had  bathed  her 
eyes,  and  had  made  a  toilet  with  care,  and  it  smote 
Dick  to  the  heart  that  so  fair  a  little  woman 
should  not  have  had  the  chance  of  showing  how 
generous  and  how  forgiving  she  could  be  to  the 
man  whose  heart  was  filled  with  her,  but  to  whom 
the  temptation  of  drink  had  ever  stood  as  a  bar- 
rier between  them. 

The  evening  passed  quietly  and  pleasantly. 
As  was  but  natural,  they  were  very  quiet  and  al- 
most solemn  in  their  conversation,  and  when  the 
clock  struck  ten,  Dick's  old  cabman  came  round 
and  took  the  ladies  home. 

Dick  did  not  offer  to  go  with  them  until  the 
last  minute,  when  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him 
that  perhaps  if  they  went  without  him  they  would 
think  it  necessary  to  pay  the  cabman.  He  there- 
fore suggested  that  he  should  see  them  as  far  as 
their  house.  Neither  Mrs.  Meredith  nor  Cynthia 
was  unwilling,  and  when  they  reached  the  door  of 
the  cottage,  Mrs.  Meredith  turned  to  Dick  with 
quite  the  air  of  an  old  friend. 

"  Shall  I  see  you  to-morrow  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  you  must  see  me  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith," he  replied.  "  I  must  see  you,  to  hand  over 


The  Voice   of  Reason.       l65 

the  money  for  one  thing,  and  to  arrange  various 
little  business  matters." 

"  Will  you  come  and  take  lunch  with  us  ?  "  she 
inquired,  half  hesitatingly. 

"  I  think  not  to-morrow,"  he  replied,  "  because 
I  want  to  go  to  the  cavalry  barracks." 

"  Do  you  know  any  one  there?  "  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith asked. 

"  Well,  it's  my  own  old  regiment,  you  see  ;  and 
I  must  go  and  lunch  with  them,  or  I  am  afraid 
they  would  be  pretty  furious  with  me.  Couldn't 
I  come  up  later  in  the  day  ?  " 

Perhaps  he  had  an  eye  to  the  fact  that  later  in 
the  day  Cynthia  would  be  there. 

Mrs.  Meredith  hesitated  yet  more.  "We 
don't  dine  late,  Mr.  Vincent,"  she  said.  "  We 
have  supper.  I  don't  like  to  ask  you  to  come  to 
supper  with  us." 

"  Oh,  why  not  ?  "  he  exclaimed  eagerly.  "  I 
should  be  delighted  to  come  to  supper  with  you,  if 
you  would  put  up  with  me." 

"  Put  up  with  you  !  "  she  exclaimed.  And 
Cynthia  laughed  softly  in  a  way  which  set  Dick's 
heart  beating  at  double  quick  speed.  "  Then  it's 
settled — isn't  it  ?  You'll  come  and  eat  a  bit  of 
supper  with  us  to-morrow  night?  It  will  be  very 
simple,  very  plain." 

"  But  I've  not  been  accustomed  to  such  ban- 
quets at  Santa  Clara,  Mrs.  Meredith,  that  the  sup- 


1 66      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

per  you  will  give  me  will  not  be  all  that  I  could 
desire.  I  can  perhaps  put  you  up  to  a  wrinkle  or 
two  in  the  way  of  cooking  a  supper." 

"  What  ?     You  can  cook  ?  " 

"  Ah,  can't  I  !  I  don't  say  that  my  pastry 
would  be  anything  to  boast  of,  but  my  pancakes 
and  my  omelettes  are  perfect ;  my  curry's  a  dream. 
Mrs.  Meredith,  before  1  go  back,  let  me  come  and 
make  you  a  chicken  curry.  You  can  buy  the 
oldest  chicken,  and  I'll  back  myself  to  make  a 
good  curry  out  of  it." 

"  Well,  you  shall ;  but  not  to-morrow.  I 
would  like  you  to  try  my  cooking,  and  then  you 
will  see,"  she  said,  "  what  a  very  desirable  person 
I  shall  be  at  Santa  Clara." 

Dick  bade  the  ladies  a  hurried  good-night,  and 
got  back  into  the  cab  with  all  his  hopes  dashed  to 
the  ground.  That  one  little  sentence  of  Mrs. 
Meredith's  had  served  to  bring  back  the  events 
of  the  immediate  past  with  tenfold  force.  Here 
he  was  already  on  intimate  terms  with  Meredith's 
widow  and  daughter.  In  all  his  life  he  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  feel  his  pulses  quicken  un- 
der the  touch  of  a  girl's  hand  as  now  ;  and  yet — 
yet — it  was  impossible  ;  although  he  had  held 
himself  and  those  on  the  spot  had  held  him  blame- 
less for  the  accident  of  Meredith's  death,  the  cold 
voice  of  Reason  told  him  that  he  must  not  dare  to 
think  of  taking  Meredith's  daughter  for  his  wife. 


The   Old   Regiment.          167 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  OLD  REGIMENT. 

IT  was  just  after  half-past  twelve  the  following 
morning  when  Dick  Vincent  walked  into  the  cav- 
alry barracks.  He  found  one  or  two  subalterns 
gathered  in  front  of  the  mess  rooms,  who  looked 
upon  him  with  inquiring  eyes  in  which  recogni- 
tion was  wholly  lacking. 

"  Is  Captain  Allison  here  this  morning  ?  "  he 
asked  of  the  first  of  these  young  gentlemen. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  in  easy  tones,  "  he  was  here 
a  minute  or  two  ago.  He  will  be  in  to  lunch  di- 
rectly. Are  you  a  friend  of  his  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

At  that  moment  an  extremely  handsome  man 
came  along  the  side  of  the  officers'  quarters  and 
turned  the  corner  sharply  upon  the  group.  The 
youngsters  instinctively  straightened  themselves  a 
little. 

The  newcomer  uttered  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise as  his  eyes  fell  upon  Dick.  "  Why,  Dick, 
my  dear  fellow,  how  do  you  do  ?  What  good 
wind  has  blown  you  this  way  ?  I  thought  you 
were  on  the  other  side  of  the  world." 


1 68      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  California,"  said  Dick.  "  But  I've  come 
home  on  a  few  months'  leave — I  mean  holiday." 

"  And  you  are  staying  in  Blankhampton  ?  How 
awfully  jolly.  Symonds,  let  me  introduce  you 
to  Mr.  Vincent — whose  name  you  have  heard,  of 
course.  And  this  is  Mr.  St.  Aubyn  ;  this  Mr. 
Paget.  Vincent,  my  dear  fellow,  you  will  have 
lunch  with  me,  of  course  ? " 

"  Why,  thank  you,  Brookes,  I  will,"  said  Dick, 
as  he  shook  hands  with  the  last  of  the  three  sub- 
alterns, who  were  now  regarding  him  with  very 
different  expressions  of  countenance  to  what  they 
had  met  him  with  in  the  first  instance.  For,  let 
me  tell  you,  Vincent  had  left  a  reputation  behind 
him  in  the  Black  Horse,  a  reputation  for  being 
the  most  good-natured  daredevil  to  be  found  in 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land. 

Colonel  Brookes  took  him  affectionately  by  the 
arm.  "  We  missed  you  very  much,  Dick,"  he 
said  ;  "far  more  than  you  will  ever  have  any  idea 
of.  You  kept  us  alive.  We've  never  had  any- 
body to  keep  us  alive  as  you  did." 

Dick  laughed  outright.  "  Well,  I  dare  say  that 
if  you  had  stayed  where  I  left  you,  which  was 
senior  captain,  you  would  have  found  several 
among  the  subs,  quite  capable  of  throwing  me  en- 
tirely into  the  shade.  You  see,  you  have  gone 
up  into  that  exalted  region  which  knows  little  or 
nothing  about  making  practical  jokes  and  such 


The   Old   Regiment.          l69 

like  amusements.  Well,  now  tell  me  ;  is  there 
any  news  in  the  old  regiment  ?  " 

"  News  ?  Well,  I've  got  the  command,  of 
course ;  and  you  know  Bethune  is  senior  major, 
and  Cockledon  junior  to  him.  Allison  comes 
next.  And  of  those  that  were  here  with  you — 
well,  there's  Dawson." 

"  Ah,  yes.  Good  old  Dawson  !  Is  he  as  seri- 
ous and  as  musical  as  ever?  " 

"  Worse,  my  dear  chap  ;  he's  married." 

"  Married  ?  Worse  might  happen  to  a  fellow 
than  that.  And  yourself?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  married,"  said  Brookes,  shak- 
ing his  head.  "I  didn't  get  the  right  woman;  if 
you  can't  get  the  right  woman  you  had  better  go 
without." 

"  I'm  with  you  there,"  said  Dick. 

"  And  here's  Allison,"  rejoined  Lester  Brookes. 

"  Hullo,  Dick  !  "  cried  Allison.  "  What  good 
wind  has  blown  you  to  Blankhampton  ?  " 

"  I  had  to  come  on  business,"  replied  Dick. 

"  Business  ?  Oh,  really.  Where  are  you  stay- 
ing?" 

"  At  the  Golden  Swan." 

"  Oh,  really.  Well,  it's  a  decent  hotel.  Come 
and  dine  to-night,  won't  you  ?  It's  guest  night." 

"  No,  not  to-night,  old  fellow.     I'm  engaged." 

"  Oh,  dining  out  ?     Anybody  I  know  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so." 


A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Somebody  I  don't  know  in  Blankhampton  ? 
That's  funny.  Where  is  it  ?  Who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  quite  sure  that  it's  nobody  you 
know,"  replied  Dick.  "  The  fact  is  that  I  came 
home  from  California  charged  with  a  mission  from 
my  partner — I  took  a  partner,  you  know,  when  I 
went  into  ranching,  and  he  died,  poor  chap  ;  at 
least,  he  was  killed.  And  this  is  his  widow  and 
daughter." 

"  Oh  !     What  is  their  name  ?  " 

"  Their  name  is  Meredith." 

"  Meredith  ?  Where  do  they  live  ?  What's 
the  girl  like  ?  " 

"  Oh,  so— so,"  said  Dick. 

"  Ah,  you  never  had  an  eye  for  a  woman,  Dick. 
I  see  you  are  not  altered  in  that  respect,"  said 
Allison.  "  Meredith  ?  Where  do  they  live  ?  I 
never  came  across  them." 

"  Oh,  they  live  at  a  little  village  a  short  way 
from  the  town." 

"  I  know  all  the  little  villages  a  short  way  from 
the  town,"  Allison  persisted,  "  which  one  do  they 
hang  out  in  ?  " 

"  It's  called  Gatehouses." 

"  Oh  !  I  thought  I  knew  every  girl  in  Gate- 
houses." 

"  They  live  very  quietly,  and  they  don't  want 
to  see  anybody." 

"Oh,   I   wasn't   fishing,"  cried  Allison.      "I 


The   Old   Regiment. 

wasn't  fishing,  not  a  bit  of  it.  It  seemed  curious, 
that's  all.  By  Jove  !  "  Allison  went  on,"  there's 
one  pretty  girl  that  lives  somewhere  on  the  road 
to  Gatehouses.  Gad  !  she  is  pretty  !  I've  fol- 
lowed her  over  and  over  again,  but  I've  never 
been  able  to  track  her  home  yet.  She  always 
goes  into  some  cottage  or  other,  but  when  I  in- 
quire they  tell  me  that  they  don't  know  who 
she  is." 

"  Ah,  that  wouldn't  be  Miss  Meredith,"  said 
Dick,  although  his  heart  told  him  it  certainly  was. 

"  Well,   you'll   dine    to-morrow   night — won't 

?M 
j~~    . 

"  Yes,  I'll  come  up  and  dine  to-morrow  night 
with  pleasure,"  Dick  replied. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  he  got  away 
out  of  the  cavalry  barracks.  He  had,  of  course, 
to  make  a  sort  of  tour,  to  see  all  the  colonel's 
horses,  all  Allison's  horses,  and,  in  fact,  to  go 
right  through  the  officers'  stables.  Then  he  in- 
quired for  the  good  lady  who  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  tidy  his  room  and  wash  his  shirts,  and 
finding  that  she  was  still  following  the  drum,  he 
went  round  with  Allison  to  pay  her  a  visit. 

Then  at  a  little  before  five  there  was  a  rumor 
of  tea  and  hot  cakes  soaked  in  butter — and  if  you 
don't  believe  that  they  eat  hot  cakes  or  muffins 
soaked  in  butter  in  a  cavalry  barracks,  you  had 
better  go  and  find  out  for  yourself,  and  you  will 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

discover  that  I  am  perfectly  right.  And  when 
the  tea  and  cakes  had  been  disposed  of,  he  and 
Allison  went  down  the  town  together,  and  he 
looked  in  at  the  Club,  and  was  introduced  to 
half-a-dozen  Blankhampton  celebrities,  and  then 
into  the  Winter  Gardens,  where  the  band  of  one 
of  the  cavalry  battalions  was  just  playing  "  God 
Save  the  Queen  !  " 

Allison  managed  to  introduce  his  old  friend  to 
several  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  Blankhampton — 
that  region  where  beautiful  women  flourish. 
There  was  not  one  of  them,  however,  who  came 
anywhere  near  to  Cynthia  Meredith  in  Dick's 
estimation ;  and  at  last,  at  about  twenty  minutes 
to  seven,  he  succeeded  in  shaking  himself  free  of 
his  friend,  and  got  into  a  cab  which  would  carry 
him  once  more  to  Gatehouses. 

He  did  not,  however,  go  quite  direct.  He 
stopped  at  a  flower  shop  and  bought  some  lovely 
cut  flowers  ;  and  then  he  stopped  at  a  book- 
seller's and  purchased  three  or  four  of  the  lead- 
ing illustrated  papers.  It  was  laden  with  these 
that  he  once  more  found  himself  in  the  little  sit- 
ting-room which  was  stamped  with  the  impress 
of  beautiful  Cynthia  Meredith. 

He  went  away  that  night  more  hopelessly  in 
love  with  Cynthia  than  ever  ;  and  instead  of  go- 
ing straight  into  the  hotel  and  to  bed,  he  tramped 
about  the  narrow  deserted  streets  of  the  old  city 


The   Old   Regiment. 

for  more  than  hour,  wondering  what  would  be  the 
best  course  for  him  to  take,  wondering  whether 
if  he  made  a  clean  breast  of  the  whole  circum- 
stances of  Roger  Meredith's  death,  his  daughter 
would  ever  bring  herself  to  regard  the  fatal  shot 
which  brought  that  ruined  life  to  a  close  in  the 
light  of  a  pure  accident.  No,  it  was  not  to  be 
thought  of.  If  Cynthia  could  be  made  to  see 
that  he  had  merely  acted  in  self-defense,  Cynthia's 
mother  would  certainly  never  hear  reason  on  such 
a  point.  No,  he  had  begun  a  system  of  silence, 
he  had  begun  by  withholding  a  certain  amount 
of  information,  and  it  was  impossible  now  to  do 
anything  which  would  disclose  the  truth. 

He  was  standing  in  the  very  shadow  of  the 
grand  old  cathedral  when  he  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that,  under  no  circumstances,  could  Roger 
Meredith's  daughter  be  anything  more  to  him 
than  a  regret.  It  was  hard,  he  pondered,  that  he 
should  have  grown  to  be  thirty  years  old  without 
having  before  met  a  woman  whom  he  could  love, 
and,  having  now  met  her,  that  she  should  be 
forever  barred  as  one  of  the  unattainable  joys  of 
life. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  avoid  meet- 
ing her  again ;  that  was  out  of  the  question.  He 
must  tread  the  road  to  his  Gethsemane  with  un- 
flinching feet ;  he  must  steel  his  soul  against  her. 
After  all,  it  was  early  days ;  he  must  school  him- 


*74     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

self  to  become  no  more  intimate  than  he  had  al- 
ready become  ;  to  avoid  those  little  familiarities, 
so  sweet  and  so  easily  taken  up,  so  impossible  to 
cut  off  when  once  acquired.  After  all,  he  argued, 
drawing  fiercely  at  his  pipe — after  all,  he  had  got 
along  very  comfortably  for  thirty  years  without 
feeling  especially  in  love,  and  he  would  have  to 
get  along  as  comfortably  for  thirty  years  more. 

When  he  had  got  thus  far,  he  went  back 
through  the  narrow  streets  and  into  his  hotel. 
And  then  he  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  all  night 
of  Cynthia  Meredith,  waking  up  in  the  morning 
with  the  conviction  that  she  was  everything  to 
him,  and  that  there  was  very  little  reason  why  he 
should  not  be  everything  to  her. 

He  had  promised  that  he  would  go  up  about 
eleven  o'clock  that  morning  and  fetch  Mrs. 
Meredith,  and  that  they  should  go  together  to 
the  bank,  where  he  would  transfer  the  money  to 
her  which  he  had  brought  from  her  husband. 

"  It's  just  as  well  that  dear  old  Roger  did  give 
me  the  money  for  you,"  said  he,  "because  if  it 
came  to  you  by  inheritance,  or  by  will  even,  they'd 
made  mulcted  you  of  some  of  it.  As  it  is,  it  was 
made  over  to  me  in  Roger's  life-time,  and  there- 
fore not  a  soul  but  you  and  I  know  anything 
about  it.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Meredith, 
I  am  downright  glad  to  get  it  out  of  my  hands  ; 
because  I  couldn't  tell  any  one  that  I  had  it  until 


The  Old   Regiment.         '75 

I  found  you,  for  had  I  done  so,  and  anything  had 
happened  to  me,  it  might  have  frustrated  all  that 
Meredith  was  so  anxious  to  have  done.  How- 
ever, now  at  last,  in  half  an  hour,  it  will  be  yours 
to  do  what  you  like  with." 

When  they  had  settled  their  business  at  the 
bank,  he  insisted  upon  Mrs.  Meredith  walking 
down  as  far  as  Bonner's  with  him  and  having 
some  sort  of  refreshment.  At  first  she  refused  ; 
but  when  he  insisted  she  was  persuaded  to  take 
a  sponge  cake  and  cream  and  cura9oa. 

"  Mr.  Vincent,"  she  said,  "  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  that  we  must  go  to  the  seaside  for  a  couple 
of  months,  so  that  Cynthia  may  have  a  thorough 
change  before  we  enter  upon  any  business  tasks." 

"  I  think  you  are  wise,"  he  said  promptly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is  absolutely  necessary.  We  were 
talking  last  night.  She  wants  to  go  to  Brigh- 
ton." 

"  You  can't  go  to  Brighton  at  this  time  of  the 
year." 

"  But  why  ? " 

"  My  dear  lady,  it  is  impossible.  Brighton  is 
awful  in  hot  weather,  and  very  Jewish." 

"  I  don't  think  they  would  hurt  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Meredith,  "since,  you  see,  I  shouldn't 
know  a  soul." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  go  to  Brighton.  Brighton 
isn't  the  place  for  this  time  of  year.  Try  Folke- 


T76       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

stone ;  Folkestone  is  gay  enough  and  smart 
enough  ;  not  Brighton." 

"You  think  not?" 

"I  don't  think,  I'm  sure  about  it.  Very  good 
shops  at  Brighton  it's  true ;  but  then  if  you  are 
so  near  as  Folkestone  or  Brighton,  you  could 
easily  run  up  to  town  if  you  want  a  day's  shop- 
ping." 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  "  that 
shopping  will  be  any  particular  temptation  to  us 
at  present.  We  have  got  to  get  used  to  having 
money  to  spend.  Up  to  now  we've  only  shopped 
from  necessity  ;  never  as  a  luxury,  never  as  a 
pastime.  I  should  be  hopelessly  lost  in  London 
now,"  she  said  pathetically.  I  should  walk  into 
the  first  shop  I  came  to  and  let  them  fleece  me 
how  they  would." 

"  So  they  would  in  Brighton  just  the  same." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  so.  You  see,  we  have 
been  very  dull ;  we  have  led  such  a  retired,  I  may 
say  such  a  narrow  life,  that  the  more  busy  and 
crowded  the  place,  the  greater  change  it  would  be 

n 

to  us. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  abroad  ?  " 

"  No,  not  at  present.  You  won't  think  us 
mad  if  we  go  to  Brighton,  will  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  shan't  think  you  mad,  but  I  shall 
think  you  are  very  mistaken  people." 

"  Well,  they've   got   an  old  proverb  up  here, 


The   Old   Regiment.          *77 

Mr.  Vincent,  which  says,  f  Everybody  knows 
their  own  know  best.' ' 

Dick  drew  back  instantly.  "  Oh,  Mrs. 
Meredith,  I  didn't  mean — I  didn't  presume  to 
dictate  to  you.  You  know  I  wouldn't  do  such  a 
thing." 

"  I  know  you  wouldn't.  But  without  dicta- 
ting, or  wishing  to  dictate,  or  anything  of  the  kind, 
you  must  see  that  1  understand  my  own  tempera- 
ment and  my  daughter's  better  than  you  do ; 
and  I  do  believe  that  as  Cynthia  has  set  her  heart 
upon  going  to  Brighton,  that  it  will  be  the  wisest 
if  1  keep  to  our  original  plan — go  down  there, 
take  comfortable  rooms  on  the  sea  front,  and  stay 
there  just  as  long  as  it  amuses  us  or  is  beneficial 
to  us." 

"  That,  of  course,"  said  Dick,  "  must  be  ac- 
cording to  your  own  judgment;  and  I  dare  say 
you  are  quite  right,  Mrs.  Meredith.  Wherever 
you  are  I  shall  find  my  way  to  see  you.  In- 
deed, there  is  so  much  business  to  be  done  in  the 
future  between  us  that  we  must  keep  in  touch  with 
each  other." 

The  widow  stretched  out  her  little  slim  hand. 
"  You  were  Roger's  friend,"  she  said  softly,  "  and 
as  long  as  I  live  nothing  shall  ever  put  you  out 
of  touch  with  me." 

12 


J78      A  Matter  of  Sentiment 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE    CHARMER. 

FOR  a  whole  fortnight  Dick  Vincent  remained 
at  the  Golden  swan  in  Blankhampton.  He  told 
himself  that  he  must  see  poor  Roger's  widow  and 
child  through  the  difficulties  of  the  move.  Wo- 
men, he  argued,  needed  a  man  to  give  them  ad- 
vice and  show  them  which  way  they  were  going. 
He  forgot  that  little  Mrs.  Meredith  had  proved 
herself  very  capable  of  keeping  her  boat  upright 
for  fifteen  years  past.  He  never  admitted  to  him- 
self that  the  little  lady,  in  spite  of  her  soft  eyes 
and  pleasant  tongue,  had  never  taken  his  advice 
in  any  one  particular.  She  made  use  of  him,  oh 
yes,  in  a  thousand  ways — but  they  were  her  ways, 
not  his. 

"  That  dear  boy  !  "  she  called  him  to  Cynthia. 
"  Oh,  if  only  your  father  had  lived,  what  a  joyful 
day  it  would  have  been  for  me  to  go  to  the  place 
he  called  after  me — to  take  up  my  broken  life — 
to  have  been  a  happy,  friendly,  delightful  party. 
Oh,  Cynthia,  Cynthia  !  It  has  come  too  late — 
too  late !  " 

Dick  was   not  by  any  means  idle  during  the 


The  Voice  of  the  Charmer. 

two  weeks  which  followed  the  finding  of  Mrs. 
Meredith.  He  had  naturally  confided  to  his 
great  friend,  Allison,  the  bit  of  luck  which  had 
come  to  him  in  the  shape  of  an  oil  well,  and  Al- 
lison, being  of  a  genial,  talkative  disposition,  had 
carefully  spread  the  news  throughout  the  better 
circles  of  Blankhampton  society.  Blankhamp- 
ton  mothers  were  therefore  quite  in  a  flutter 
over  the  advent  of  this  extremely  handsome 
young  man,  who  had  such  a  satisfactory  piece  of 
property  as  an  oil  well  at  his  back. 

He  had  not  been  three  days  at  the  Golden 
Swan  when  Allison  came  in  one  day  whilst  he  was 
eating  his  lunch,  and  sat  himself  down,  a  trim 
figure  in  undress  uniform. 

"  Hullo  !     You'll  have  some  lunch,  old  chap  ? " 

"  Yes,  thanks  ;  I  will." 

"  How  came  you  to  be  about,  this  hour  ?  " 

"Why,  I  came  down  to  see  you.  Yes,  I'll 
have  some  soup,  please.  There's  a  little  woman 
in  town  called  Manisty.  She  ain't  a  bad  little 
sort.  She  wants  you  to  come  to  tea  this  after- 
noon." 

"  Me  ?  "  exclaimed  Dick.  "  Why,  what  does 
she  know  about  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  seen  you  about,  you  know.  A 
chap  of  your  distinction  cannot  go  without  notice 
in  a  place  like  this.  You  always  did  mash  all  the 
women." 


i8o       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Me  ?  "  repeated  Dick.  "  I  never  mashed 
anybody  in  my  life." 

"  Well,  you  have  this  time,  anyway ;  and  Mrs. 
Manisty  is  giving  a  tea-fight  this  afternoon — and 
she  gives  rather  nice  tea-fights — and  she  wants  me 
to  bring  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  out  of  the  way  of  tea-fights.  I  have 
been  living  in  the  wilds  for  seven  years.  I  don't 
think  she'll  really  care  for  me,  you  know  ;  not  if 
she  is  in  her  senses." 

"  Oh,  I'll  answer  for  her,  if  not  her  senses. 
You'd  better  come,  because  I  said  I'd  take 
you." 

"  My  dear  chap,  you  shouldn't  make  promises 
for  me.  You  shouldn't  make  promises  for  other 
people  at  all."  * 

"  I  know  I  shouldn't,  but  I  did  all  the  same. 
You  might  come.  The  little  woman  would  be 
very  gratified." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  the  little  woman,"  said 
Dick,  cold-bloodedly  attacking  the  beef. 

"  Well,  she's  a  good  sort.  And  you'll  come  ? 
I'll  call  for  you  about  half-past  four.  Now  don't 
go  and  say  you're  engaged.  I  know  there's  some 
charmer  up  at  Gatehouses,  but  you  can't  want  to 
be  living  there." 

"  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  living  there,"  said  Dick. 
He  went  rather  red  and  bent  his  face  down  over 
his  plate. 


The  Voice  of  the  Charmer. 

"  You  might  take  me  up  there,"  said  Allison. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  they  are  quite  out  of  your  line." 

"  Are  they  ?     Are  they  ugly  ?  " 

«  Oh,  no." 

"  Then  they  are  good-looking.  I  know  you, 
I  know  you  inside  out,  Dick  ;  nobody  ever  knew 
you  better.  What  are  you  doing  to-night  ?  Will 
you  come  and  dine  ? " 

«  No,  I  can't." 

"  Why  not  ?  What  are  you  doing  ?  You  are 
going  to  Gatehouses." 

"  No,  I  am  not." 

"  Well,  they  are  coming  to  dine  with  you." 

"  Yes,  they  are." 

"  Then  you  can  ask  me." 

"  No,  I'd  rather  not." 

"  What  ?  Are  you  sweet  on  the  girl  ?  You 
don't  think  I'd  go  poaching  on  your  preserves, 
do  you  ?  Don't  you  know  me  better  than  that 
after  all  these  years  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  a  case  of  cut  me  out  if  you  could, 
old  boy,  if  there  was  a  question  of  cutting  out, 
which  there  isn't.  But  Mrs.  Meredith  has  only 
just  heard  of  the  death  of  her  husband,  and  she 
mightn't  like  to  meet  a  perfect  stranger." 

"Oh!  How  long  has  he  been  in  California? 
Fifteen  years,  didn't  you  tell  me  the  other  day  ? 
And  you  were  commissioned  to  go  home  and  find 
her.  I  should  think  she's  about  got  over  the 


182       A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

parting  by  this  time.  I  shall  come.  What  time 
are  you  dining  ?  " 

"  Never  mind." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right.  I  shall  turn  up  at  about 
a  quarter-past  seven  ;  if  you  are  dining  at  seven, 
I  shall  cut  in  ;  if  you  are  dining  at  half-past,  I 
shall  be  in  plenty  of  time." 

"  Well,  you  can  come  if  you  like,"  said  Dick. 

"  I  will.  Thank  you  very  much.  So  kind  of 
you  to  ask  me.  I  am  delighted  to  accept." 

Dick  gave  a  grunt  and  a  laugh.  "  What  a 
humbug  you  are  !  Never  saw  a  chap  so  little 
changed  in  my  life." 

"  No,  I  am  not  changed,  my  dear  fellow.  I 
have  got  nothing  to  change  me.  Life  has  gone 
on  in  one  unbroken  round  of  field  days  and 
dances,  and  a  few  entertainments  thrown  in.  You 
can't  change  on  a  diet  like  that." 

"  Why  do  you  stick  at  it  ?  " 

"  Why  do  I  stick  at  it  ?  It  suits  me  well 
enough.  I  have  not  the  brains  for  a  more  ar- 
duous profession.  And  after  all,  if  you  come  to 
that,  I  don't  know  that  there  is  anything  elevat- 
ing about  planting  vineyards  and  growing  fruit 
trees,  as  you  have  been  doing  for  seven  years." 

"  Oh,  it  was  a  question  of  lungs  with  me.  I 
wouldn't  have  jacked  up  the  old  regiment  to  go  and 
bury  myself  alive  out  West,  even  for  an  oil  well. 
If  a  chap's  lungs  give  out,  what  is  he  to  do  ? " 


The  Voice  of  the  Charmer.    l83 

"  No,  true.  Yes,  waiter,  I'll  have  some  more 
of  that  salad.  It's  extremely  good.  It's  the  best 
salad  I've  eaten  for  a  long  time.  It's  the  one 
thing  our  cook  fails  in — as  I  tell  the  mess  presi- 
dent every  day  of  my  life.  He  mixes  a  salad  as 
if  it  were  something  sour." 

"  1  didn't  notice  anything  wrong  with  it  the 
other  day  when  I  was  lunching,"  said  Dick,  in- 
differently. "  But  seven  years  on  a  ranche  with- 
out a  cook  of  any  kind  doesn't  make  a  man  more 
fastidious.  Well  now,  look  here,  old  chap  ;  I 
don't  want  to  go  to  this  party  this  afternoon." 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  go.  I've  kind  of  staked 
my  professional  honor  on  it ;  and  the  little  woman 
will  be  furiously  disappointed  if  you  don't  turn 
up  ;  she'd  take  it  as  an  insult.  She  hasn't  any 
daughters,  so  that  needn't  upset  your  apple-cart. 

"  Oh,  all  right.  Well,  I'll  go.  But  since  you 
have  been  talking  about  me,  I  suppose  you  have 
thrown  in  a  mention  of  the  oil  well  in  the  back- 
ground. You  might  spread  the  information  that 
I'm  not  by  way  of  being  a  marrying  man." 

"  All  right,  old  chap,  I'll  warn  'em  all  off.  And 
I'll  come  for  you  about  four,  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh,  all  right." 

The  result  of  this  first  plunge  into  the  vortex 
of  Blankhampton  society  was  to  make  Dick  Vin- 
cent the  most  sought  after  young  man  in  the 
neighborhood  ;  and  this  in  spite  of  a  frankly 


l84      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

brutal  way  in  which  Captain  Allison  spread  the 
news  far  and  wide  that  Dick  was  a  "  gone  coon  " 
in  the  direction  of  his  old  friend's  daughter. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Manisty,"  he  said  to  the  little 
lady  in  question,  who,  although  she  had  no 
daughters,  was  reputed  to  be  the  cleverest  match- 
maker in  the  town,  "  it  isn't  a  bit  of  use  wasting 
twopennorth  of  trouble  over  Vincent,  or  his  books, 
or  his  family,  or  his  oil  well,  or  anything  else. 
He's  got  a  partner  in  the  oil  well  already — in  the 
shape  of  Meredith's  daughter  ;  and  if  he  doesn't 
end  by  making  her  a  partner  for  life,  I'll  eat  my 
hat." 

"  And  is  she  presentable  ?  " 

"  Presentable  !  "  echoed  Allison.  "  No,  Mrs. 
Manisty,  she's  not  presentable,  she's  the  loveliest 
thing  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  She's  a  lady  born 
and  bred — although  she's  been  poor  up  to  now. 
Nobody  else  will  have  a  look  in  with  Vincent,  al- 
though he'd  be  fit  to  bite  my  head  off  it  he  could 
hear  me  say  so.  But  I  tell  you,  because  I  know 
how  good-natured  you  are  in  arranging  these  little 
matters.  I  am  afraid  you  won't  do  any  business 
with  Vincent." 

"  I  should  like  to  meet  the  young  lady,"  said 
Mrs.  Manisty. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  you  would — at  least,  I  don't 
think  she  would.  They  have  lived  a  very  retired 
life,  because  they  hadn't  the  money  for  anything 


The  Voice  of  the  Charmer.    l85 

else ;  and  they  are  just  on  the  eve  of  leaving  the 
place.  Besides,  Mrs.  Meredith  has  only  recently 
heard  of  her  husband's  death,  and  she  doesn't 
want  to  be  visiting  or  making  new  acquaintances 
at  present." 

But  the  Blankhampton  matrons  who  had 
heard  of  the  oil  well,  and  who  had  seen  Dick, 
were  not  thus  to  be  warned  off  the  chase,  and 
Dick,  became  the  recipient  of  so  many  invitations 
and  so  many  smiles  and  of  so  much  friendliness 
that  he  began  to  think  it  would  be  necessary  to 
fly  the  country  before  Mrs.  Meredith  and 
Cynthia  were  ready  to  go  to  Brighton.  Every 
moment  that  he  could  get  away  from  the  claims  of 
Society  he  spent  in  the  little  house  at  Gatehouses  ; 
and  when  the  mother  and  daughter  left  it  with 
their  few  personal  belongings,  so  that  the  auction- 
eer's people  might  take  possession,  he  seemed  to 
be  morning,  noon,  and  night  in  their  pleasant 
lodgings  overlooking  St.  Thomas's  Street. 

Once  or  twice  he  found  himself  perilously  near 
to  telling  Cynthia  how  completely  she  had  taken 
possession  of  him,  body  and  soul.  One  evening, 
when  Mrs.  Meredith  was  suffering  from  a  head- 
ache, he  had  taken  her  up  the  street  and  into  the 
Winter  Garden — at  all  hours  of  the  day  the  most 
pleasant  rendezvous  in  Blankampton. 

The  air  of  the  summer  evening  was  still  and 
warm  ;  behind  them  stretched  the  great  glass 


1 86      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

houses  wherein  Blankhampton  disported  itself 
during  the  winter  months  ;  around  them  lay  the 
lovely  lawns,  on  which  Blankhampton  took  the 
air  during  the  summer ;  above,  a  golden  moon 
cast  its  light  upon  the  winding  river,  which  flowed 
at  the  end  of  the  terraces.  They  could  hear  the 
sound  of  a  piano  floating  across  the  gardens,  the 
sound  of  a  piano  and  of  a  girl's  fresh  voice.  It 
was  a  night  to  make  the  most  diffident  man  speak 
his  mind ;  it  was  a  night  to  make  the  most 
difficult  girl  come  like  a  bird  to  the  hand  of  the 
tamer. 

"  It's  jolly  here,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Cynthia  turned  her  grave  gray  eyes  upon  him. 
"  Should  you  call  it  jolly  ?  "  she  asked. 

Dick  laughed.  "  It  depends  on  the  definition 
of  jolly.  Perhaps  if  I  had  thought  before  I  spoke, 
which  I  didn't  I  should  have  put  it  in  another 
way  ;  but  it's  very  perfect  sitting  out  here,  in  this 
still,  tranquil  English  air." 

"  Is  it  different  to  Californian  air  ?  "  she  asked, 
turning  and  looking  at  him. 

Again  the  mention  of  California,  and  a  certain 
look  in  her  eyes,  suddenly  brought  Roger 
Meredith  back  to  his  mind — not  only  Roger 
Meredith  but  that  last  look  in  his  eyes,  before  he 
had  drawn  the  trigger  of  his  revolver. 

A  cold  chill  settled  down  upon  Dick,  and  he 
shuddered  visibly.  "  There  is  a  great  deal  of  rot 


The  Voice  of  the  Charmer.    l87 

talked  about  California,"  he  said,  almost  harshly. 
"  People  here  have  an  idea  that  California  is 
literally  teeming  with  milk  and  honey.  It  is  the 
greatest  mistake  in  the  world.  There  is  nothing 
like  this  over  there.  And,  Miss  Cynthia,  it's 
very  chilly,  after  all.  I  think  we  had  better  go 
in." 

He  went  back  to  his  hotel  that  night  with  his 
whole  being  in  a  tumult.  He  told  himself 
savagely,  over  and  over  again,  that  he  was  a  fool 
— that  he  was  playing  with  edged  tools — that  he 
he  must  get  this  girl  out  of  his  mind  before  the 
damage  was  too  late  to  undo. 

"  If  she  knew,"  he  argued,  "  if  she  knew  the 
truth,  why,  neither  she  nor  her  mother  would 
ever  bring  themselves  to  look  at  me.  They 
might  in  common  justice  own  that  I  hadn't  any 
choice  in  the  matter,  but  the  fact  remains  the 
same,  that  mine  was  the  hand  that  sent  Roger 
Meredith  out  of  this  world  into  the  next.  They 
are  women.  They'd  never  get  over  it.  I  must 
clear  out  of  this,  and  make  up  my  mind  that 
Roger  Meredith's  daughter  is  not  for  me." 


1 88      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MRS.  VINCENT'S  FEARS. 

FROM  the  night  when  Dick  Vincent  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  under  no  circumstances  could 
Roger  Meredith's  daughter  ever  become  his  wife, 
he  kept  himself  most  carefully  from  any  special 
intercourse  with  her.  He  proposed  no  more 
evenings  in  the  Winter  Gardens,  he  addressed  all 
his  conversation,  or  at  least  a  good  deal  of  his 
conversation,  to  the  little  widow  ;  he  allowed  him- 
self no  familiarities,  and  he  permitted  himself  to 
be  drawn  a  little  further  into  the  vortex  of 
Blankhampton  society  than  he  would  have 
have  dreamed  of  doing  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances. Indeed,  during  those  few  days  in  which 
he  remained  at  the  Golden  Swan,  more  than  one 
mother  in  Blankhampton  had  visions  of  a  propri- 
etorial interest  in  the  oil  well  at  Santa  Clara. 

But  eventually  Dick  went  away,  leaving  behind 
him  no  promise  of  spring.  He  did  not  even 
travel  up  as  far  as  London  with  Mrs.  Meredith 
and  Cynthia,  but  told  them  as  an  excuse  for  not 
doing  so  that  he  had  promised  to  dine  at  the 
Black  Horse  mess. 


Mrs.   Vincent's  Fears.         l89 

Then  he  went  back  to  London,  where  he  put 
in  a  miserable  week — so  miserable  that  he  more 
than  once  caught  himself  wishing  that  he  were 
back  on  the  ranche  again.  After  that,  he  went 
home  to  Hollingridge,  where  his  mother  once 
more  killed  the  fatted  calf  in  his  honor,  although 
the  whole  house  was  in  a  tumult  over  the  prepa- 
rations for  his  sister's  wedding. 

"  Now  tell  me,  dear  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent, 
when  dinner  was  over  the  first  evening,  and  the 
others  had  wandered  away  to  various  amusements 
or  occupations,  "  you  found  poor  Mr.  Meredith's 
widow  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  found  her,"  said  Dick. 

"  Is  she  nice  ?  " 

"  Very  nice." 

"A  lady?" 

"  Oh,  a  perfect  lady,"  Dick  answered. 

"  Was  she  upset  ?  Do  tell  me  about  it.  I  am 
most  interested." 

"  Well,  she  was  a  bit  knocked  over  at  first,  yes 
she  certainly  was  knocked  over,  because  she  has 
always  clung  to  the  hope  that  he  would  turn  up 
again." 

"And  the  girl?" 

"  Oh,  well,  the  girl  doesn't  remember  him ; 
she  was  more  philosophic  about  it." 

"  Well,  dear,  one  could  not  expect  her  to  be 
anything  else.  Most  trying,  I  consider,  to  go  on 


J9°     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

year  after  year,  never  sure  from  one  minute  to  an- 
other what  might  turn  up  or  come  out.  Poor 
soul !  I  have  thought  about  her  so  much  whilst 
you  have  been  away.  You  paid  over  the  money  ; 
and  what  will  become  of  the  ranche  ?" 

"  Well,  I  shall  have  to  prove  Meredith's  will 
as  soon  as  I  go  back,"  Dick  replied. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  me  to  ask  them  here  for 
a  little  while  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  mother,  thank  you.  I  don't  think 
so  ;  not  at  present,  at  all  events.  You  see — 
well,  she's  had  a  great  shock,  and  she's  in  very 
new  mourning  ;  and  they  have  gone  off  for  a  long 
holiday  for  one  thing," 

"  Oh,  for  a  long  holiday.  What  sort  of  cir- 
cumstances did  you  find  them  in  ?  " 

"  Well,  pretty  narrow  ;  what  one  would  call 
straitened  circumstances.  And  of  course  Mrs. 
Meredith's  first  idea  was  to  give  her  daughter  a 
complete  holiday  and  change.  That  was  only 
natural," 

"  Oh,  it  was  natural  enough,  poor  woman ;  I 
can  quite  see  that.  Had  she  money  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Meredith  had  a  little  money." 

"Yes.  And  did  they  live  on  that  exclu- 
sively ?  " 

Mrs.  Vincent  was  insistent.  She  meant  to  get 
to  the  bottom  of  the  Meredith  story,  and  Dick 
knew  by  long  experience  that  it  was  useless 


Mrs.   Vincent's  Fears.         I9l 

for  him  to  try  to  wriggle  out  of  giving  the  in- 
formation which  she  required. 

"  No.     The  girl  was  teaching." 

"  Oh."  Mrs.  Vincent's  tone  was  comprehen- 
sion itself.  "  Teaching,  was  she  ?  And  you  say 
she's  so  pretty." 

"  Oh,  very  pretty." 

"  And  nice  ?  " 

"  Very  nice.     Charming." 

"  And  teaching  ?  Dear  me  !  Ah,  dear,  well  I 
suppose  there  will  be  no  fear  of  poverty  in  the 
future." 

"  Not  the  very  smallest,"  said  Dick.  "  She's 
an  heiress  now — unless  the  oil  well  should  dry 
up,  which  is  most  unlikely." 

"  Oh,  she'll  marry,  my  dear.  A  pretty  girl 
with  half  an  oil  well  is  sure  to  marry.  Perhaps 
her  mother  will  marry. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  She's  absolutely  faithful 
to  poor  old  Roger's  memory.  The  only  thing 
that  hurt  her  much  was  his  notion  that  she  might 
have  married  somebody  else,  believing  him  to  be 
dead." 

"  Poor  thing  ! "  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  feelingly. 
"  I  can  imagine  nothing  more  dreadful  than  to 
live  like  that.  And  all  these  years,  poor  soul, 
really  living  on  the  edge  of  a  razor." 

"  Yes,  really  living  on  the  edge  of  a  razor," 
said  Dick.  "  Great  bore  to  think  yourself  free, 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

and  then  all  at  once  find  a  husband  turn  up 
again." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  "  it 
was  just  as  well  that  your  poor  friend  was  taken 
out  of  it.  They  would  have  had  a  dreadful  time 
together." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  said  Dick. 

"Yes,  dear;  sure  of  it.  It  doesn't  do  for 
people  to  go  away  and  be  parted  like  that. 
They  are  not  the  same  when  they  come  together 
again." 

"  Oh,    I    don't    know.       I    have   been    away 

seven  years ;  you  don't  find  me  any  different,  do 

?» 
. 

"  Well,  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent.  "  You  have 
got  some  queer,  old-fashioned,  bachelor  ways  of 
your  own." 

"  Have  I  ?  "  cried  Dick. 

"Well,  yes,  I  must  confess  that  you  have." 

"  Not  really  ?  "  asked  Dick. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  boy,  really,"  persisted  his 
mother. 

"  How  horrid  !  "  was  Dick's  rejoinder. 

"  Well,  dear  boy,  perhaps  you  will  be  doing 
away  with  your  bachelorism." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Dick,  shortly. 

"  No  ?     It  seems  a  pity." 

Mrs.  Vincent  meant  that  it  would  be  a  pity  to 
let  somebody  else  take  possession  of  the  oil  well ; 


Mrs.   Vincent's  Fears.         193 

but  Dick,  who  had  once  been  as  simple  and  open 
as  the  day,  was  sufficiently  changed  for  her  to 
hesitate  in  putting  the  thought  into  plain  words. 

"  I  don't  see  that  there  is  any  particular  pity 
about  it,"  said  Dick. 

"  Well,  dear,  it  would  be  a  sad  thing  if  the  old 
name  should  die  out." 

"  It  won't  die  out,"  said  Dick ;  "  there's  Jack 
Vincent — who  can  keep  up  the  traditions  of  the 
old  place  far  better  than  I  should." 

"  Jack  Vincent !  "  cried  his  mother,  with  an  air 
of  disgust.  "  Jack  Vincent  indeed — to  rule  at 
Hollingridge  !  Why  your  father  would  have  a 
fit  at  the  very  mention  of  it." 

"  Don't  mention  it,  dearest,"  said  Dick,  easily. 
"  If  I  want  to  marry  later  on,  I  shall  marry.  If 
it  pleases  Providence  to  send  me  an  heir,  well, 
that  will  do  away  with  Jack  Vincent's  chance. 
But  if  I  don't  want  to  marry,  I  certainly  shall  not 
do  so  to  keep  Jack  out  of  the  inheritance,  to  which 
he  has  quite  as  much  right  as  I  have." 

"  No  right  in  the  world,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  Oh,  come,  come,  you  are  prejudiced,"  said 
Dick.  "  There's  time  enough,  dear ;  and  any  day 
the  next  ten  years  will  do  to  discuss  that  contin- 
gency. I'll  bet  you  the  governor  never  worries 
his  head  about  it." 

"  More  than  you  think,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  Does  he  ?  Poor  dear  !  I  am  sorry.  I  wish 
'3 


X94     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

he  wouldn't,  and  I  wish  you  wouldn't.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  mother,  I  hate  to  think  of  the 
time  when  there  will  have  to  be  a  change  of 
ownership.  The  governor  is  in  his  right  place  as 
the  squire,  and  you  are  in  your  right  place  as 
mistress  of  Hollingridge.  Why  you  should  be 
anxious  to  bring  somebody  else  in  who  would 
eventually  turn  you  out,  I  can't  think." 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  selfish,"  cried  his  mother. 

"  Selfish  !     Never  anybody  less  so." 

"  Then  you  wouldn't  like  me  to  ask  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Meredith  down  for  a  few  days  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so." 

The  very  thought  of  Cynthia  at  Hollingridge 
was  enough  to  set  his  pulse  beating  at  double 
quick  time.  With  an  insurmountable  barrier 
between  them,  it  would  indeed,  his  thoughts  ran, 
be  foolish  if  he  allowed  his  mother  to  foster  any 
greater  intimacy  than  existed  between  them  at 
present.  Of  course,  he  reminded  himself,  she, 
poor  darling,  did  not  know  why  it  was  better  he 
should  see  as  little  of  Roger  Meredith's  daughter 
as  possible. 

"  I  can't  think,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent  to  Laura  a 
few  hours  later,  "  what  has  come  over  Dick." 

"  Dick's  all  right,  mother,"  said   Laura. 

"  No,  he  isn't  all  right.  There's  something 
on  his  mind.  He's  quite  changed  from  what  he 
was  before  he  went  away." 


Mrs.   Vincent's  Fears.         19$ 

"  Well,  dear,  seven  years  of  isolation  would 
change  any  man." 

"  Yes  ;  but  he  has  changed  since  he  came  back. 
I  don't  know  what  has  happened,  but  something 
is  weighing  on  Dick's  mind.  My  dear,  I  do 
think  we  might  ask  the  St.  John  girls  over." 

"  The  St.  John  girls  ?     Why  ?  " 

"  Because  they  are  bright  and  pretty — and  Dick 
might  fall  in  love  with  one  of  them." 

"  But  you  don't  want  Dick  to  fall  in  love  with 
one«of  them,  surely  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  him 
to  be  married  and  have  a  nice  wife  of  his  own, 
who  would  go  to  and  fro  between  England  and 
California,  and  make  life  altogether  different  for 
Dick." 

"  I  don't  think  you  had  better  try  interfering 
with  Dick's  love  affairs,"  said  Laura,  wisely. 

"  Not  interfere,  dear,  no — not  for  the  world ; 
that  I  have  never  done  with  any  of  you.  But  to 
put  nice  girls  in  his  way,  that  is  different.  I  am 
not  like  some  mothers,"  she  went  on,  preening 
herself  complacently,  "  who  can't  bear  to  think  of 
their  sons  marrying.  I  want  him  to  marry,  I 
want  him  to  have  a  nice  wife — one  of  our  own 
sort,  to  be  one  of  ourselves.  I  like  the  St.  John 
girls," 


A  Matter   of  Sentiment.          i 

"  Yes.  Would  you  like  them  as  daughters-in- 
law,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Well,  only  one  at  a  time,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Vincent,  with  dignity. 

"  I  see.  I  don't  think  you  would  like  the  St. 
John  girls  at  all.  Dad  can't  bear  them." 

"  I  never  heard  him  say  so,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  I  have,  many  a  time,"  said  Laura.  "  Oh, 
don't  worry,  dear,  about  Dick.  Dick  isn't  feel- 
ing very  well ;  he's  bothered  about  the  Meredith 
affairs.  Don't  get  fancying  things  about  him ; 
he  has  quite  enough  on  his  mind,  poor  dear,  with- 
out you  worrying.  You  know,  darling  mother, 
you  can't  worry  without  showing  it." 

"  My  poor  boy  !  "  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  pathet- 
ically. "  I  wish  he  would  confide  in  me." 

But  Dick  neither  confided  in  his  mother  nor  in 
any  one  else.  He  passed  his  time  between  Hol- 
lingridge  and  Foxborough,  taking  all  that  was  to 
be  had  in  the  way  of  shooting  at  either  place. 
Then  he  received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Meredith. 

"  We  feel  quite  hurt,"  she  wrote,  "  that  you 
have  not  yet  been  to  see  us.  This  isn't  keeping 
your  promise,  dear  Mr.  Vincent.  Do  find  time, 
when  you  have  killed  all  the  poor  birds  in  your 
neighborhood,  to  come  and  see  us  in  our  resting- 
place  here.  Cynthia  is  as  happy  as  a  child,  and 
and  is  looking  better  every  day.  For  my  own 
part,  I  particularly  want  to  see  you,  that  I  may 


Mrs.   Vincent's  Fears.         *97 

consult  you  about  various  business  matters  which 
are  too  much  for  me  to  decide  alone.  Do  make 
an  effort  and  come  down  for  a  few  days." 

So  she  was  as  happy  as  a  child  ;  and  the  little 
widow  could  not  get  on  without  him  any  longer. 
He  knew  that  he  had  no  choice  but  to  go  and 
take  up  at  Brighton  the  same  terms  of  intimacy 
that  he  had  been  on  at  Blankhampton.  There 
was  no  getting  out  of  it ;  he  had  no  single  excuse 
that  could  for  a  moment  hold  water  with  an  astute 
little  woman  like  Cynthia's  mother.  Yes,  he 
would  have  to  go. 

He  broke  the  news  to  his  mother,  half-expect- 
ing that  she  would  grudge  his  absence,  but  Mrs. 
Vincent  still  had  an  eye  to  the  other  half  of  the 
oil  well,  and  she  was  instantly  all  sweet  and  friend- 
ly sympathy." 

"  Wants  to  consult  you  on  business,  does  she  ?  " 
she  said.  "  Poor  little  woman  !  Yes,  you  must 
go,  dear  boy.  You  can't  leave  her  in  the  lurch. 
I  suppose  she  wants  to  know  how  to  invest  the 
money  brought  over — or  something  of  that  kind. 
Poor  little  soul  !  I  wish  you  had  let  me  have 
them  here  for  a  bit." 

"  I  didn't  want  them  here,"  said  Dick,  shortly. 

"  No,  no  ;  so  you  said,  dear.  But  I  wish  you 
had.  I  think  it  would  have  been  kinder  on  our 
part." 

"  No  kindness  at  all,"  said  Dick. 


A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  No  ?  "  queried  Mrs.  Vincent,  and  dismissed 
the  subject  from  the  conversation. 

"  Oh,  how  he  does  dislike  that  poor  girl,"  she 
remarked  to  Laura  afterwards. 

"  What  poor  girl  ?  "  asked  Laura. 

"Why,  the  girl — Meredith's  daughter." 

"  I  don't  think  he  does." 

"  My  dear  child,  I'm  perfectly  certain  of  it.  I 
wanted  to  have  them  here — it  seems  only  a  nat- 
ural thing  when  Dick  was  her  father's  great  friend 
that — well,  that  the  first  visit  should  be  to  Dick's 
father  and  mother.  Dick  wouldn't  hear  of  it." 

"  Oh,  wouldn't  he  ?  I  suppose  Dick  knows. 
What  makes  you  think  he  doesn't  like  her  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  about  it,  my  dear  child ;  I  am 
perfectly  certain  of  it.  He  shut  me  up." 

"  Dick  shut  you  up,  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  shut  me  up  quite  short." 

"  Oh,  mother,  what  nonsense  !  " 

"  It  isn't  nonsense,  dear  child ;   it's  fact." 

"  I  suppose  she's  rich  ?  "  said  Laura. 

"  Rich  ?  She's  got  the  other  half  of  the  oil 
well,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent,  with  what  was  almost 
a  scream. 

"Ah,  and  you  are  thinking  of  the  oil  well,  are 
you,  darling  ?  Well,  if  Dick  likes  her,  he  wouldn't 
like  her  to  think  that  he  had  an  eye  to  the  oil 
well." 

"  This  is  positively  silly  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Vincent. 


Something   Calling.  199 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

SOMETHING    CALLING. 

PROBABLY  a  less  conceited  man  than  Dick  Vin- 
cent has  never  been  born  into  the  world.  Never- 
theless he  could  not  hide  from  himself,  when  he 
walked  into  the  Merediths'  lodgings  at  Brighton, 
the  fact  that  Cynthia's  grave  gray  eyes  lighted  up 
in  a  radiant  blaze  of  glory  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"  Now  you'll  dine  with  us  here  to-night  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Meredith,  when  they  had  exchanged 
greetings  and  she  was  pouring  out  a  cup  of  tea 
for  Dick. 

"  No,  no.  You'll  dine  with  me  at  my  hotel," 
said  he. 

"  I  don't  think  that's  right." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is  ;  most  right.  I  haven't  been 
to  Brighton  for  years  ;  in  fact,  I  doubt  if  I  have 
been  here  more  than  twice  in  my  life  ;  and  I  shall 
be  most  hideously  disappointed  if  you  don't  take 
me  to  all  the  sights  and  dine  with  me  every  night." 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  not  fair." 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  fair.  You  give  me  your 
society " 

"  And  you  give  us  our  dinner,"  laughed  Cyn- 
thia. 


200      A   Matter  of  Sentiment 

"  Well,  if  you  like  to  put  it  that  way,  Miss 
Cynthia.  I  don't  in  the  least  care  how  you  put 
it,  so  long  as  I  have  my  own  way." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  making  a 
great  s\ow  of  yielding,  "  we  won't  quarrel  over  a 
point  like  that." 

"  We  won't  quarrel  about  anything,"  said  Dick. 
And  soinehow,  in  spite  of  himself  and  of  his  wise 
resolutions,  his  eyes  sought  Cynthia's,  and  on 
Cynthia's  soft  round  cheeks  there  rose  a  color 
which  turned  the  faint  peach-bloom  of  her  nat- 
ural tint  to  a  fine  roseate  hue.  In  a  sense  Dick 
lost  his  head.  He  was  intoxicated  by  the  charm- 
ing beauty  of  her  presence,  by  the  charm  of  her 
manners,  the  thrill  of  her  musical  voice,  the  in- 
effable delight  of  her  presence. 

Then  memory  pulled  him  up  with  a  jerk  once 
more,  and  with  a  stifled  sigh  he  turned  to  the  lit- 
tle widow,  who  looked  most  dainty  in  her  becom- 
ing widow's  cap.  "  You  wanted  to  consult  me, 
Mrs.  Meredith  ? "  he  said,  with  quite  a  change 
of  tone. 

"  Ah,  yes,  but  that  will  keep  till  to-morrow. 
We  won't  talk  business  to-day.  To-morrow  mor- 
ning I  will  show  you  the  papers  that  I  wanted  to 
consult  you  about,  and  we  will  be  as  business-like 
as  the  most  business-like  man  could  desire.  To- 
day we  will  forget ;  we  will  only  be  friends  to-day." 

"  I  am  only  too  happy  to  be  your  friend,"  said 


Something  Calling.  201 

Dick,  "  and  we  will  leave  all  the  business  affairs 
until  the  cold  and  calculating  morn.  Meantime 
I  see  that  the  theater  is  on.  Shall  we  go  to- 
night?" 

"  It  would  be  pleasant,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith. 
"  We  have  seen  so  little — Cynthia  and  I." 

"  We  have  seen  nothing,"  put  in  Cynthia  with 
a  gay  laugh.  "  I  think,  darling  mother,  that 
would  be  nearer  the  mark.  We  have  seen  noth- 
ing. You  see,  Mr.  Vincent,  dear  and  sweet  as 
our  vicar  was  at  home,  I  think  he  would  have 
drawn  the  line  at  the  school-mistress  going  to  the 
theater.  So  we  never  went — except  sometimes 
when  we  were  at  Rockferry  for  our  summer  holi- 
day. The  theater  at  Rockferry  isn't  large.'" 

"  The  theater  here  at  Brighton  is  a  large  one," 
said  Dick.  "  There  is  always  a  good  company, 
and  on  Thursday  afternoons  always  a  piece  down 
from  town.  I  shall  take  tickets  on  my  way  back 
to  the  hotel ;  or  stay — I  can  take  them  in  the 
hotel  itself." 

It  must  be  confessed  that,  even  to  Dick's  mas- 
culine eyes,  Mrs.  Meredith  and  Cynthia  had  done 
themselves  very  well  in  the  matter  of  mourning. 
It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Meredith  was  wearing  weeds, 
but  they  were  of  the  most  pronouncedly  fashion- 
able type.  Her  Marie  Stuart  cap  was  an  airy 
creation,  more  like  an  announcement  that  its 
wearer  was  a  widow  than  any  symbol  of  grief. 


202      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

Her  crape  bodice  was  cut  square,  and  filled  into 
the  throat  with  white  pleated  lisse.  If  she  had 
looked  to  Dick  very  young  at  their  first  interview, 
she  certainly  seemed  ten  years  younger  now  that 
he  saw  her  well  and  fashionably  dressed.  As  for 
Cynthia,  she  was  adorable.  Her  simple  yet  ele- 
gant morning  toilet  was  cut  so  as  to  show  a  little 
of  the  softly  rounded  throat  and  her  round  and 
slender  wrists. 

"  She  is  the  image  of  her  mother,"  Dick's 
thoughts  ran,  "  but,  thank  God,  not  so  determined 
a  character."  And  then  he  remembered  with  a 
pang  that  he  need  not  thank  God — that  Cynthia 
Meredith  would  never  be  anything  to  him. 

He  thought  about  her  as  he  walked  along  the 
sea  front  to  his  hotel.  She  would  never  be  any- 
thing to  him — yes,  always,  always  the  one  woman 
in  the  world  to  him  ;  his  heart  would  ever  turn 
to  her  as  the  most  fair  and  perfect  of  her  sex  ; 
nothing  could  take  that  away.  She  could  never 
be  his  wife  because  of  that  secret  which  lay  hidden 
in  his  heart.  She  could  never  be  his  wife,  but 
she  always  could  and  she  always  would  be  his 
ideal. 

He  felt  comforted  as  he  turned  into  the  hotel, 
and  it  was  with  a  cheerful  heart  after  all  that  he 
ordered  a  little  table  to  be  reserved  for  dinner, 
and  then  went  out  to  the  bureau  to  see  what  places 
he  could  get  for  the  theater. 


Something   Calling. 

This  done,  he  went  up  to  his  room  and  dressed 
with  quite  a  light  heart,  and  when  the  two  ladies 
arrived  he  met  them  with  a  beaming  smile  of  wel- 
come. Poor  Dick  !  It  was  so  hard  to  remember 
when  in  Cynthia's  sweet  presence  that  he  must 
keep  his  heart  under  lock  and  key,  that  he  must 
not  let  himself  go,  that  he  must  watch  every  word 
that  fell  from  his  lips,  that  he  must  never  forget 
that  between  them  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed,  a 
gulf  which  could  never  be  bridged  over  on  this 
side  the  grave.  Left  to  himself,  he  might  have 
forgotten — nay,  it  is  safe  to  say  he  would  have 
forgotten — but  that  curious  likeness  to  her  father 
in  Cynthia's  eyes  brought  him  up  every  now  and 
again  as  if  he  were  a  bird  tied  by  the  leg  to  a 
stone.  It  was  curious,  because  Cynthia  was  so 
absurdly  like  her  mother  ;  it  was  only  now  and 
again,  only  when  Dick  felt  the  most  drawn  to- 
wards her,  that  that  strange  look  of  Roger  Mere- 
dith would  step  in  between  them,  of  Roger  Mere- 
dith as  he  had  seen  him  last. 

Well,  the  morning  after  the  dinner  and  the  visit 
to  the  theater,  Dick  went  round  to  the  Merediths' 
pleasant  rooms  in  order  to  see  what  was  the  busi- 
ness on  which  Mrs.  Meredith  desired  to  consult 
him. 

"  Ah,  it  is  you,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfac- 
tion. "  How  good  of  you  to  come  so  early  ! 
Cynthia  has  gone  out  for  a  blow  on  the  front,  so 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

we  are  quite  alone.  Now,  I  am  going  to  take 
you  right  into  my  confidence." 

"  I   hope  so,"  said  Dick. 

"  I  dare  say  you  won't  be  pleased,"  said  the 
little  woman. 

"  Oh,  why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  going  to  tell  you  what,  some- 
how, I  feel  will  vex  you." 

"Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Meredith.  Why  should  any- 
thing you  tell  me  vex  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  like  Brighton." 

"  You  are  thinking  of  taking  a  house  here  ?  " 

"  Not  at  present.  You  know,  all  our  treasures 
- — heaven  knows  they  are  not  many  !  "  she  said, 
with  a  sigh  and  a  smile,  "  I  have  left  in  safe  keep- 
ing in  London." 

"  Yes  ? " 

"  By  and  by  we  shall  settle  down  somewhere, 
and  we  shall  make  ourselves  a  home  ;  but  not 
yet." 

"  No  ?     You  desire  to  travel  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  just  it.  We  desire  to  travel. 
Now  we  want  to  know  when  you  are  going  back 
to  Santa  Clara." 

"  I  propose  to  go  back  in  about  six  weeks' 
time,"  he  replied. 

"  Six  weeks'  time  ?  Now,  I  know  you  will  be 
vexed  at  what  I  am  going  to  say." 

"  I  will  trv  not  to  be,  Mrs   Meredith." 


Something   Calling.          205 

"  Well,  we  want  to  go  over  with  you." 

«  Oh,  but " 

"  Yes  I  knew  you  would  say  '  but' — yes,  of 
course  I  knew  that ;  but  we  want  to  go,  do  you 
see  ?  And  we  mean  to  go." 

"Of  course,  if  you  mean  to  go,  if  you  have  set 
your  minds  on  going,"  said  Dick,  "  well,  I  sup- 
pose you  will  go." 

"  I  suppose  we  shall,"  said  the  little  widow. 

"  I  quite  understand  your  wish  to  see  the  place, 
it's  a  perfectly  natural  wish  ;  to  you  there  is 
something  very  fine  and  delightful  in  the  idea, 
but  you  won't  enjoy  it." 

"  No,  perhaps  not.  But  I  shall  have  satisfied 
myself." 

"  Satisfied  yourself!  "  His  heart  was  beating 
so  that  he  could  scarcely  pronounce  the  words. 
"  Satisfied  yourself!  "  he  echoed. 

Mrs.  Meredith  nodded.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I 
have  set  my  heart  on  seeing  the  place  where 
Roger  passed  the  last  seven  years  of  his  life.  I 
mean  to  go  to  his  grave.  Oh,  yes,  I  mean  to  go 
to  the  place  where  he  died." 

"  You  must  do  as  you  like,"  said  Dick,  in  a 
ready,  calm  voice. 

I  am  bound  to  confess  that  his  calmness  was 
the  calmness  of  despair.  He  felt  assured  that 
once  Mrs.  Meredith  found  herself  at  Midas 
Creek,  in  the  very  hotel  where  Roger  had  died, 


206      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

she  would  spot — yes,  that  was  the  word  he  used, 
remember  gentle  reader ;  do  not  think  that  I,  his 
author,  am  using  so  unliterary  a  word,  I  am  but 
detailing  his  thoughts  at  the  moment,  and  that 
was  the  phrase  as  Dick  Vincent  put  it  in  his 
mind — she  would  spot  the  identity  of  the 
man  who  had  fled  by  the  advice  of  the  land- 
lord and  Valentine  Clegg  ;  she  would  root  out 
Valentine  Clegg  ;  she  would  do  a  thousand  things 
that  would  be  inconvenient  and  tiresome.  Well, 
let  her  do  it.  Let  the  worst  come  to  the  worst ; 
he  could  but  own  to  it  all  and  explain  that  his 
only  thought  in  concealment  had  been  to  save 
her  pain.  After  all,  nobody  could  blame  him. 
It  was  a  mere  matter  of  sentiment,  it  could  be 
but  a  mere  matter  of  sentiment  that  his  happened 
to  be  the  hand  on  the  revolver  at  the  critical 
moment  when  Meredith's  brain  gave  out ;  there 
was  nothing  personal  about  it.  Oh,  the  woman 
was  determined ;  she  must  do  as  she  pleased.  If 
she  chose  to  go  to  Santa  Clara,  she  must  go. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Mr.  Vincent  ? " 
said  Mrs.  Meredith,  looking  at  him  fixedly. 

"  I  was  wondering  how  we  could  manage  the 
journey  so  that  you  would  be  tolerably  comfort- 
able," he  replied. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that  we  are  no  feather-bed  creatures, 
sugar  and  salt,  wrapped  in  cotton  wool.  You 
came  down ;  where  you  came  down  we  can  go  up." 


Something   Calling.  a°7 

"  That  doesn't  follow,"  said  Dick. 

"  Well,  it  doesn't ;  but  if  we  suffer,  why,  we 
suffer  ;  and  it  will  be  no  fault  of  yours,  for  I  can 
honestly  say  that  you  genuinely  tried  to  scare  me 
off.  But  I  am  not  to  be  scared  off.  I  want  to 
see  the  place  that  was  called  after  me.  I  have 
never  had  a  yard  of  earth  in  my  life — not  so 
much  as  the  freehold  of  a  grave.  I  have  got  a 
fine  estate  out  there ;  I  want  to  see  it." 

"  Yes,  well,  that  is  possible  enough,"  said  Dick. 
"  All  that  I  am  afraid  of  is  that  you  will  be  hid- 
eously disappointed  when  you  do  see  it.  Over 
here  one  somehow  thinks  of  California  as  a  gar- 
den. There  is  precious  little  of  the  garden  about 
it,  Mrs.  Meredith.  However,  if  you  have  made 
up  your  mind  to  go,  perhaps  it  is  better  that  you 
should  go  and  get  it  done  with.  You  won't 
want  to  stay  there  very  long,  that's  certain.  You 
think  of  the  ranche  as  a  fine  estate  ;  as  far  as 
money  value  goes  it  is  a  fine  estate  ;  as  far  as 
beauty  goes,  don't  have  any  idea  that  you  are 
going  to  find  the  counterpart  there  of  what  you 
call  a  fine  estate  here.  If  you  go  out  there,  if  it 
is  only  for  a  month,  you  will  go  out  to  a  rough 
life,  to  rough  work,  to  a  total  want  of  convenience, 
to  disappointment — yes,  I  am  certain  to  disap- 
pointment— but  you  will  be  satisfied.  I  won't 
say  another  word  against  it." 

"  Now  I   never   thought   I    could  bring   you 


208      A.  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

round  to  reason  like  that,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith, 
looking  at  him  with  a  quizzical  air.  "  1  told 
Cynthia  to  go  out  and  stop  out  till  one  o'clock, 
because  I  expected  it  would  be  a  long  time  before 
I  should  bring  you  to  reason." 

"  But,  my  dear  lady,  there's  no  bringing  me  to 
reason.  You  are  free  to  do  as  you  choose.  You 
have  a  perfect  right  to  go  out  if  you  wish  to  do 
so.  I  only  have  tried  to  dissuade  you  because  I 
have  been  there,  and  I  know  how  beastly  it  all  is 
to  an  English  mind ;  but  if  you  have  set  your 
heart  upon  it,  why  there's  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  I  can't  stop  your  going.  You  won't  want 
to  go  twice." 

"  That's  as  may  be.  I  am  delighted  that  you 
have  come  round,  and  that  you  are  so  sensible. 
I  hate  people  who  are  not  sensible.  Something 
tells  me  that  I  ought  to  go  ;  something  that's 
with  me  by  day  and  most  of  the  night^something 
that's  always  about  me,  says  :  (  Go  to  Santa  Clara. 
You  will  be  happy  when  you  have  been  to  Santa 
Clara.'  Now,  should  I  have  such  a  feeling  for 
nothing  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Dick.  "  You  might.  I 
don't  feel  that  you  will  be  any  happier  for  going. 
But  then  I  am  not  you,  and  you  must  do  as  you 
like.  Do  you  think  he — do  you  wish  me  to 
think  that — I  mean,  is  it  that — that  Meredith 
himself  is  calling  you,"  he  asked,  in  a  curious 


Something  Calling. 

strained  voice,  "  that  Meredith  is  influencing  you 
from  where  he  may  be,  that  he  wants  you  to  go 
— is  urging  you  to  go  ?  Do  you  think  Mere- 
dith wants  you  to  clear  up  anything  connected 
with  his  death  ?  " 


210       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A    TIME    OF    INDECISION. 

WHEN  Dick  Vincent  put  the  question  straight 
to  Roger  Meredith's  widow  which  asked  whether 
she  had  any  feeling  that  there  might  be  some  mys- 
tery to  clear  up  connected  with  his  death,  he  felt 
exactly  as  if  he  were  signing  his  own  death  war- 
rant. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  It  might  be.  I 
can  only  tell  you  that  ever  since  I  knew  that 
Roger  was  dead,  I  have  had  the  same  curious 
feeling  that  I  must  go  to  Santa  Clara,  the  feeling 
of  somebody  calling  me.  I  don't  know  whether 
it  is  Roger,  or  not.  1  only  know  that  I  must 

go-" 

"In  that  case,"  said  Dick,  "I  think  that  you 

are  perfectly  right  to  make  up  your  mind  and 
carry  it  through.  So,  Mrs.  Meredith,  we  will 
consider  it  settled.  1  will  do  my  best  to  make 
you  feel  the  journey  as  little  as  may  be  ;  it's  a 
very  tedious  journey,  and  you  will  find  but  little 
comfort  when  you  get  to  the  end  of  it;  except 
the  comfort  of  having  a  mind  at  ease." 

"You  will  stay  and  have   lunch  with  us?" 


A   Time   of  Indecision.       2I1 

said  Mrs.    Meredith    presently,  when  they  had 
finished  their  business  talk. 

"  Oh,  you  are  very  kind.  Yes,  I'd  like  to — if 
it  doesn't  inconvenience  you." 

"  Not  the  least.  And  Cynthia  will  be  de- 
lighted. She  wanted  to  see  you  ;  she  has  some- 
thing that  she  wants  to  ask  you.  No,  I  won't 
tell  you  what  it  is,  because  I  hate  having  things 
said  for  me.  Oh,  Mr.  Vincent,  I  can't  tell  you 
how  delighted  she  will  be  that  you  have  con- 
sented to  our  going  out  with  you." 

"  Consented  ?  I  wish  you  wouldn't  put  it  in 
that  way.  The  world  is  perfectly  free  to  you,  to 
do  as  you  like,  and  Miss  Cynthia  also.  I  had 
no  business  to  give  an  opinion  even — let  alone 
consent.  Surely,  Mrs.  Meredith,  you  understood 
that  from  the  beginning  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  we  shouldn't  have  gone  dead 
against  you.  We've  too  much  faith  in  your 
judgment  for  that.  We  quite  see  now  what  you 
meant  about  Brighton.  Mind,  I  think  it  was  the 
best  place  under  the  circumstances — yes,  I  think 
it  was  quite  the  best  place  that  we  could  possibly 
have  come  to ;  but  I  quite  see  why  you  disap- 
proved, and  I  think  you  were  perfectly  right.  J 
shouldn't  like  to  live  here,  except  in  the  winter  ; 
I  shouldn't  like  to  come  here  another  year— 
another  summer.  As  it  is,  I  fancy  that  it  has 
served  our  turn  better  than  any  of  us  know ;  and 


212         A 

I  think  when  you  see  Cynthia  you  will  agree  with 
me." 

When  Dick  Vincent  did  see  Cynthia  Meredith 
he  was  convinced  of  one  thing — that  she  was  the 
loveliest  girl  he  had  ever  seen  in  his  life,  and  that 
if"  he  should  live  to  be  a  hundred  years  old,  no 
other  woman  would  ever  have  quite  the  same 
effect  upon  him  as  she.  She,  on  her  side,  was  un- 
mistakably delighted  to  see  him  again,  but  in 
truth  Dick  himself  was  too  overwhelmingly  in  love 
to  be  able  to  read  quite  accurately  what  her  face 
ought  to  have  told  him.  In  his  self-abasement 

o 

he  put  down  the  softly  shining  eyes,  the  deli- 
cately blooming  cheeks,  the  gay  insouciant 
manner  to  the  benefit  that  she  had  received  from 
change  of  air.  Without  doubt  the  girl  was  better 
for  the  rest  and  change  and  ease  which  had  come 
into  her  life ;  she  was  the  better  for  these  things, 
as  her  mother  was  indisputably  better  for  being 
out  of  anxiety  at  last ;  but  it  was  not  change  of 
air  or  ease  of  circumstances  that  had  made  Cynthia 
look  as  she  looked  at  that  moment. 

"  Now  you  see  her  in  the  daylight,"  cried 
Mrs.  Meredith,  who  was  as  blind  in  her  way  as 
Dick  was  in  his ;  "  now  you  see  what  change  has 
done  for  this  young  lady." 

"  Ah,  change  is  good  for  everybody,"  cried 
Cynthia.  "  Well,  have  you  two  settled  all  your 
wonderful  business  arrangements  ?  " 


A   Time   of  Indecision.       2I3 

"Yes,  darling,  we  have  settled  everything. 
Mr.  Vincent  is  going  to  stay  to  lunch,  and  I  have 
a  great  piece  of  news  for  you." 

She  looked  up  quickly  at  Dick,  a  sudden  pallor 
overspreading  her  countenance.  "  Why,  what 
has  happened  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  tone  of  appre- 
hension. 

"  Oh,  nothing  disagreeable,  dearest ;  nothing 
but  that  Mr.  Vincent  has  come  round  to  my  way 
of  thinking.  He  has  quite  come  to  see,  darling, 
that  it  would  be  better  if  we  go  out  to  Santa  Clara 
when  he  does." 

"  Oh,  really.  Why,  what  magic  have  you  used 
to  make  him  change  his  opinion  like  this  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  changed  my 
opinion,  Miss  Cynthia,"  said  Dick.  "  As  I  said 
in  the  beginning,  you  will  both  be  woefully  dis- 
appointed with  Santa  Clara.  You  will  have  a 
very  long  and  tedious  journey,  and  you  will  suf- 
fer many  and  hideous  inconveniences,  but  your 
mother  will  satisfy  her  mind,  and,  after  all,  that  is 
an  important  item." 

Cynthia  laughed,  the  color  rushing  back  to  her 
face  again.  "Mr.  Vincent,"  she  said,  "to  you 
who  have  been  half  the  world  over,  it  must  seem 
very  foolish  that  we  should  so  persistently  want 
this  one  thing.  To  you  a  long  journey  is  a  bore  ; 
to  us  it  is  a  novelty  and  an  experience  ;  and  the 
longer  it  is  and  the  more  fatiguing,  the  more 


2I4     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

thoroughly  we  shall  enjoy  it.  Why,  don't  you 
remember  the  man  in  c  Punch,'  in  a  third-class 
carriage  between  Edinburgh  and  London  ?  He 
says, f  What  a  ghastly  long  drive  it  is  ! '  And  his 
fellow-passenger,  a  canny  Scotchman  exclaims, 
f  Mon,  the  ticket  cost  one  pun,  twelve-and- 
sax-pence.  Ye  need  hae  something  for  your 
money.' ' 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  said  Dick,  "  I  see  your 
point ;  and  as  long  as  you  are  not  disappointed, 
I  needn't  say  that  to  me  the  presence  of  ladies  at 
Santa  Clara  will  be  a  joy.  I  told  poor  Roger, 
your  father,  often  enough  that  you  would  come 
there  and  be  perfectly  happy."  He  dropped  his 
voice  so  that  Mrs.  Meredith,  who  was  speaking 
to  the  servant  who  had  just  entered,  could  not 
hear  what  he  said. 

Cynthia  dropped  her  voice  to  the  same  level. 
"  It  is  my  mother's  great  wish,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  never  known  her  so  entirely  set  upon  any- 
thing. She  would  have  been  wretched  if  you 
hadn't  given  way.  Thank  you  very  much,  Mr. 
Vincent.  You  have  been  so  good  to  us." 

"  Don't  say  that,"  he  said  ;  "  the  goodness  is 
all  the  other  way." 

Then  Mrs.  Meredith  turned  her  back  towards 
them  again,  and  the  conversation  passed  into  other 
and  lighter  channels. 

It  is  hard  adequately  to  convey  the  state  of  Dick 


A   Time   of  Indecision. 

Vincent's  mind  at  this  juncture.  What  he  suf- 
fered was  not  less  than  torture.  With  every  day, 
every  hour,  he  became  more  and  more  hopelessly 
and  passionately  in  love  with  Cynthia  Meredith. 
There  were  times  when  he  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  would  risk  everything ;  that  he  would  ask  her 
to  marry  him  ;  others  when  he  felt  that  there  was 
no  help  for  it  but  making  a  clean  breast  of  the 
whole  story  once  for  all  ;  but,  strange  to  say,  so 
surely  as  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  risk 
all  and  ask  Cynthia  to  marry  him,  so  did  always 
that  curious  look  come  into  her  eyes  which  re- 
minded him  of  her  father.  Of  course  it  was  a 
natural  thing  that  the  girl  should  resemble  her 
father  in  some  particular,  and  her  deep,  gray  eyes 
were  almost  the  only  feature  in  which  there  was 
any  likeness  to  Roger  Meredith.  Sometimes  he 
would  make  up  his  mind  that  he  would  tell  the 
mother  and  daughter  that  his  was  the  hand  which 
had  sent  Meredith  to  his  last  account ;  yet  when- 
ever he  drew  near  to  the  subject,  by  some  chance 
Cynthia  always  contrived  to  check  him.  That 
was  pure  accident,  of  course,  and  perhaps  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  fact  that  it  was  not,  naturally, 
a  very  palatable  confession  for  a  young  man  to 
have  to  make.  At  such  times  he  would  feel  that 
he  had  been  a  fool  ever  to  think  of  upsetting  their 
minds  and  their  confidence  in  him  by  saying  a 
single  word  of  what  was  not  actually  necessary  to 


be  told.  "  If  I  cannot  stop  her  from  going  to 
Midas  Creek,"  his  thoughts  ran,  "  surely  some- 
thing will  happen  so  that  she  will  not  go  ferreting 
everything  out  there.  Perhaps  it  may  not  be  the 
same  landlord  ;  perhaps  we  might  go  and  not  a 
soul  recognize  me  or  remember  much  about  Mere- 
dith's death.  It  isn't  such  an  uncommon  thing 
for  a  man  to  get  put  out  of  the  way  like  that.  I 
don't  suppose  the  affair  made  more  than  a  stir  of 
an  hour  or  two  ;  and  evidently  the  jury  sympa- 
thized with  me,  or  they  never  would  have  brought 
it  in  £  Died  by  the  visitation  of  God.'  It  was  only 
their  way  of  acquitting  me  of  blame." 

Then  he  tore  himself  away  from  Brighton,  and 
went  back  to  Hollingridge.  That  time  he  was 
fully  determined  that,  somehow  or  another,  he 
must  break  with  the  Merediths,  Yes,  he  fully 
made  up  his  mind  that  life  at  this  rate  was  not 
worth  living,  and  that  anything  would  be  better 
than  the  anguish  of  mind  to  which  he  was  now 
subject. 

"  Going  down  to  Brighton  again  ? "  said  his 
mother,  when  eight  or  ten  days  had  gone  by. 

"  Yes,  I  must  go  down.  I  have  rather  impor- 
tant business.  I  shall  be  back  in  forty-eight 
hours." 

He  happened  to  meet  Cynthia  on  his  way  from 
his  hotel  to  the  Merediths'  lodgings,  and  at  the 
sight  of  the  speaking  gray  eyes,  the  quivering  of 


A   Time   of  Indecision.       2I7 

the  tremulous  lips,  and  the  heightening  of  the 
lovely  rose-bloom  on  the  face,  it  may  as  well  be 
confessed  that  all  his  good  resolutions  took  unto 
themselves  wings  and  flew  away. 

He  stayed  two  days  in  Brighton  that  time,  go- 
ing away  more  hopelessly  in  love  than  ever — more 
convinced  that  the  marriage  could  not  be,  and 
that  Cynthia  was  not  for  him. 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  not  well,"  said  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith to  him  on  the  second  day. 

"  No,  I  am  not  very  well,"  he  replied.  "  It's 
nothing  ;  don't  worry  about  it,  I  beg." 

So  he  went  back  to  Hollingridge,  where  his 
mother  was  much  exercised  in  her  mind,  and 
though  she  did  not  say  a  word  to  him,  she 
several  times  confided  her  doubts  and  fears  to 
Laura. 

"  I  cannot  tell  what  is  the  matter  with  Dick. 
I  never  saw  anybody  so  changed  in  my  life.  He's 
like  a  person  who  cannot  rest." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Laura,  "  that  he  has  been 
doing  laborer's  work  for  the  last  seven  years,  and 
now  finds  a  life  of  ease  and  idleness  almost  intol- 
erable." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  that,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent, 
"and  yet  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  There  is 
something  that  we  do  not  know  anything  about." 

"Then,  my  dear  mother,  you  may  be  sure  that 
we  shall  never  know,"  said  Laura,  wisely. 


-l8       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  He's  in  love  ;  that's  what's  the  matter  with 
Dick." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Laura. 

"  I  don't  think  ;  I'm  sure  of  it.  Now  is  it 
that  Meredith  girl,  or  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  He  says  she's  very  pretty,"  was  Laura's 
remark. 

"  Yes,  but  I  begged  him  to  let  me  ask  them 
here  for  a  few  days.  1  think  it  would  be  the  only 
proper  thing  for  me  to  do.  He  wouldn't  hear  of 
it.  He  says  they  are  ladies.  The  girl  is  very 
pretty.  He  seems  to  like  them  very  much,  and 
_and " 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Laura. 

"  Well,  I'm  looking  ahead  at  the  future  a  little." 

"As  how?" 

"  Miss  Meredith  is  the  heiress  to  half  the  oil 
well,  which  last  year  yielded  a  little  over  ten  thou- 
sand pounds.  Now  it  seems  a  pity  to  me,  as  she 
is  young  and  pretty,  and  a  lady,  and  Dick  is  un- 
/  mistakably  in  love  with  her,  that — well,  that  Dick 
'  doesn't  marry  her." 

"  Perhaps  she  won't  have  Dick." 

"  So  likely  !  "  said  the  mother,  with  dignified 
scorn.  "  Where  has  she  had  the  chance  to  meet 
such  a  man  as  Dick?  " 

"  Well,  dear,  it  isn't  quite  that.  Girls,  especially 
when  they  are  young,  have  their  fancies — -just  as 
men  have.  Perhaps  Dick  has  already  asked  her. 


A   Time   of  Indecision.       2I9 

He  went  down  to  Brighton  and  stayed  two 
days." 

"  Well,  he  told  me  he  should  be  back  in  forty- 
eight  hours." 

"  But  he  wasn't  back  in  forty-eight  hours, 
dearest." 

"  He  was  only  there  two  days.  The  question 
is,  did  Dick  propose  ?  If  so,  did  she  refuse 
him  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  the  girl,  then  I  should 
know  in  a  minute." 

"  Well,  dearest,  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  that 
you  can't,"  was  Laura's  sensible  reply.  "  Look 
here,  mother,  take  my  advice.  Don't  say  a  word 
to  Dick." 

«  As  if  I  should  !  " 

"You  might.  Try  not  to  think  about  it. 
Leave  Dick  to  manage  his  own  affairs  by  himself. 
If  he  wants  the  girl,  you  may  be  sure  that  he  will 
do  his  best  to  win  her.  Meantime,  it's  no  use 
asking  other  girls  over,  because  Dick  will  have 
none  of  them." 

"  I  know  that,"  said   Mrs.  Vincent,  ruefully. 

And  it  was  quite  true.  Dick  absolutely  de- 
clined to  be  fascinated  by  any  of  the  young  ladies 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Hollingridge.  They 
might  be  rich,  or  well  born,  or  pretty,  or  charm- 
ing, or  possessed  of  any  other  desirable  quality 


A.   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

that  young  men  look  for  in  their  wives  ;  it  was  all 
the  same  to  Dick,  and  before  he  had  been  at  home 
a  week  he  again  took  flight  and  his  way  to  Brigh- 
ton, this  time  fully  determined  that  come  what 
might  he  would  not  let  "  I  dare  not"  wait  upon 
"  I  will."  He  would  make  the  horrid  plunge, 
and  put  himself  face  to  face  with  the  truth,  whether 
when  Cynthia  knew  that  her  father  had  died 
by  his  hand,  she  would  scorn  him  or  not.  He 
determined  that  he  would  break  the  news  first  to 
Cynthia,  that  if  Cynthia  took  it  in  the  wrong  way 
he  could  quietly  efface  himself  without  paining 
her  mother  by  the  disclosure.  He  would  leave 
it  to  Cynthia  whether  she  chose  to  tell  her  or 
not. 

It  happened  that  he  had  some  difficulty  in  find- 
ing a  suitable  opportunity.  He  did  not  choose 
to  tell  her  in  the  lodgings,  because  they  were 
never  free  from  the  chance  of  being  interrupted 
by  her  mother.  He  planned  out  a  long  walk  to 
some  point  of  interest  which  would  offer  a  feas- 
ible excuse  for  such  an  excursion.  Yes,  he  would 
tell  her  then  ;  and  if  she  was  upset,  they  would 
be  on  a  quiet  country  road  and  nobody  would  be 
the  wiser  if  she  gave  way  to  emotion. 

But  alack  and  alas  !  it  poured  for  the  better 
part  of  three  whole  days  ;  and  beyond  going  to  a 
concert  at  the  pavilion,  to  the  theater,  and  to  one 
of  the  hotels  to  dine,  neither  Mrs.  Meredith  nor 


A  Time  of  Indecision. 

Cynthia  ventured  out  of  doors  at  all.  Then,  on 
the  third  morning,  he  received  a  telegram  from 
his  sister  Laura  :— "  Father^very  ill.  Fear  hope- 
less.  Come  home  at  once." 


222      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  OLD   SQUIRE  AND  THE  NEW. 

As  fast  as  rail  could  take  him  Dick  Vincent 
sped  home  to  the  old  house.  He  was  terribly 
upset  by  his  sister's  telegram.  He  and  his  father 
had  always  been  devoted  friends,  and  the  news 
that  he  was  lying  ill  of  what  was  probably  a  hope- 
less malady  was  very  terrible  to  him.  The  jour- 
ney seemed  interminable — as  journeys  taken 
under  such  circumstances  always  do.  He  said  to 
himself,  over  and  over  again,  that  of  course  in  the 
face  of  such  a  message  it  would  have  been  impo*s- 
sible  for  him  to  continue  the  confidence  which  he 
was  about  to  make  to  Cynthia  Meredith. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  a  sign  that  I  ought  not  to  tell 
her ;  that  it  would  be  better  not  to  tell  her,"  his 
confused  thoughts  ran.  "  If  the  dear  old  gover- 
nor gets  over  this,  I'll  take  it  as  a  warning  that  it 
would  be  better  not  to  tell  Cynthia  a  single  word 
of  that  episode.  Perhaps  it  was  only  sent  to  me 
as  a  means  of  getting  me  away.  I  had  better  take 
it  as  a  sign  not  to  think  of  her  any  more." 

But  he  did  continue  to  think  of  her  during  all 
the  rest  of  the  journey  ;  and  at  last  the  train 
steamed  into  Hollinridge  station,  and  he  thrust 


The  Old  Squire  and  the  New.  223 

his  head  out  eagerly  to  see  if  there  was  any  one 
who  could  give  him  news  of  his  father's  state. 
Almost  the  first  person  that  he  saw  his  sister  Laura, 
looking  anxiously  up  and  down  the  station.  He 
waved  an  eager  hand  to  her,  and  she  came  swiftly 
along  the  platform  to  meet  him. 

"  How  is  he  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  just  the  same.     Horribly  ill." 

"  But  with  what  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  bent  and 
kissed  her. 

"  Oh,  a  fit  of  apoplexy.  He  was  all  right  this 
morning  at  breakfast,  in  fact  he  had  been  all 
round  the  stables  pottering  about  just  as  usual. 
He  came  into  breakfast  as  brisk  as  a  bee,  and  just 
as  he  was  leaving  the  table  he  slipped  and  fell. 
Mother  called  out  to  him — she  knew  in  a  moment 
what  it  was.  He  just  said,  '  I  am  very  ill.  Send 
for  Dick.'  Of  course  they  got  him  to  bed,  but 
he  was  unconscious  then,  and  the  doctor  has  been 
with  him  most  of  the  day  since.  Dick,  dear,  he 
says  it's  quite  hopeless ;  there's  nothing  to  be 
done." 

Dick  turned  his  head  away  with  a  blurred  mist 
in  front  of  his  eyes.  "  Will  he  know  me,  do  you 
think  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  Laura  replied.  "  He 
hasn't  taken  any  notice  of  anybody.  He  just  lies 
there,  feeling  with  his  hand  all  over  the  bed  as  if 
he  were  searching  for  something ;  and  now  and 


224     A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

then  he'll  seem  to  brush  a  fly  off  his  face.  Oh, 
it's  dreadful,  Dick — it's  dreadful ! " 

"  And  mother  ?  "  Dick  asked,  in  a  choking 
voice. 

"  Mother  ?  Oh,  she  just  sits  there  holding  his 
hand  ;  it's  heart-breaking." 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  know  me  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  think  so." 

It  gave  Dick  a  shock  as  they  drove  up  the 
avenue  to  see  that  the  house  presented  very  much 
its  usual  appearance.  The  dogs  were  lying  out  on 
the  broad  steps,  Laura's  Persian  cat  was  perched 
on  the  balustrade,  the  flowers  all  bloomed  just 
as  they  had  been  doing  for  weeks,  and  the  white 
lace  curtains  stirred  idly  in  the  evening  breeze. 

The  old  butler  met  him  with  a  shake  of  the 
head.  "  Eh,  it's  a  sad  home-coming,  Mr. 
Dick,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  Charles.     Is  there  any  news  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  it's  just  the  same.  I  was  in  there 
just  now.  If  you  could  persuade  the  mistress  to 
eat  something.  Do  get  her  out  of  the  room, 
Mr.  Dick.  If  it  was  only  a  glass  of  old  port  and 
a  biscuit,  it  would  be  better  than  nothing.  I 
know  cook's  made  some  strong  beef-tea.  It  may 
be  days  before  the  end  comes." 

"  All  right,"  said  Dick. 

"  He  turned  and  followed  Laura  into  the 
dining-room,  feeling  all  at  once  cold  and  sick. 


The  Old  Squire  and  the  New.  225 

It  was  horrible  to  hear  Charles  speak  of  the  end 
in  that  tone  of  certainty. 

"  I'd  advise  you,  Mr.  Dick,"  said  old  Charles, 
following  him  into  the  room,  "  to  take  a  nip  ot 
brandy  before  you  go  in  to  see  the  mistress ;  and 
then  do  try  and  bring  her  out,  Mr.  Dick." 

"  All  right,"  said  Dick,  "  I  will." 

He  went  into  his  father's  room  a  few  minutes 
later,  and  although  the  old  man  opened  his  eyes 
when  Dick  spoke  to  him,  there  was  no  gleam  of 
any  real  consciousness  in  his  face. 

An  old  woman  from  the  village,  who  had 
nursed  the  young  Vincents  as  children,  was  stand- 
ing by  the  bed.  "  It's  no  use,  Mr.  Dick,"  she 
said,  "  he  doesn't  know  you.  He  hasn't  known 
any  one  really  since  half  an  hour  after  he  was 
taken.  He'll  never  know  any  one  again." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  this  room 
mother  ?  "  Dick  asked,  turning  to  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  I  don't  know,  dear.     Ever  since " 

"  Come  out  with  me  for  a  few  minutes ;  you 
can  do  no  good  here.  Come,  just  for  ten 
minutes." 

With  some  difficulty  she  permitted  herself  to 
be  persuaded,  and  Dick  got  her  into  the  dining- 
room. 

"  I  don't  really  want  anything  to  drink,  Dick," 
she  cried. 

"  No,  dearest,  I  know  you  don't  want  it,  but 
15 


226      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

you  may  have  a  very  long  strain  before  you  yet. 
Don't  refuse  what  will  sustain  and  strengthen  you. 
Charles  has  got  some  port  up  for  you  ;  it  will 
do  you  so  much  good." 

"  If  the  mistress  would  be  persuaded  to  have  a 
cup  of  strong  beef-tea,"  said  Charles. 

"  No,  I  really  can't." 

"  Well,  you've  had  no  lunch,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Not  a  mouthful,  Mr.  Dick,"  said  Charles. 

"  I  dare  say  my  mother  doesn't  feel  like  it, 
Charles.  But  she  might  take  a  cup  of  beef-tea. 
Come,  darling,  do.  Think  of  us  a  little  ;  think 
what  it  will  mean  to  us  if  you  are  laid  up  also." 

"  Oh,  I'll  do  anything  you  like,  Dick,"  said 
his  mother.  "  I  never  was  stupid,  and  I  wouldn't 
hurt  poor  dear  cook's  feelings  for  the  world." 
She  took  the  cup  of  beef-tea  and  drained  it. 
"  Yes,  that  is  very  good,"  she  said.  "It  doesn't 
take  an  effort  to  get  it  down.  What,  Charles  ? 
A  little  port  ?  Oh,  I  don't  mind." 

"  Come  outside  for  five  minutes,"  said  Dick. 
"It's  such  a  hot  night,  scarcely  a  breath  stirring." 

"  No,  not  outside,"  said  his  mother,  shrinking 
back. 

"  Well,  just  to  the  door.  Let  me  put  you  a 
chair  on  the  drawing-room  veranda  for  ten  min- 
utes. You  must  think  of  yourself,  dear." 

"  I  don't  like  to  leave  him,"  said  his  mother, 
weakly. 


The  Old  Squire  and  the  New.  227 

"  No,  not  to  leave  him.  But  old  Goody  is 
there,  and  if  he  wanted  you  or  anything,  she 
would  come  for  you  in  a  minute.  It  isn't  like 
going  out  of  the  house.  Just  you  get  a  breath 
of  air,  dear." 

Eventually  she  suffered  herself  to  be  coaxed 
out  into  the  veranda  on  to  which  several  of  the 
drawing-room  windows  opened,  and  there  they 
sat  for  a  few  minutes  while  the  soft  summer 
shadows  fell  gently  around  them,  and  late  after- 
noon wore  into  evening  as  softly,  almost  as  im- 
perceptibly, as  the  good  genial  life  up-stairs  was 
wearing  away  to  eternity. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent  at  last. 

Dick  made  no  effort  to  detain  her.  He  knew 
that  she  would  in  any  case  be  the  better  for  the 
change  of  air,  and  in  truth  time  proved  that  he  was 
right.  Mrs.  Vincent  had  need  of  all  her  strength, 
for  several  days  went  by,  during  which  the  squire 
lay  in  exactly  the  same  state,  breathing  stertorously, 
but  taking  no  notice  of  any  one  or  anything.  Oh, 
the  wretched  time  it  was.  Mrs.  Vincent  spent 
most  of  her  time  at  the  bedside  ;  even  she,  in  the 
end,  suffered  herself  to  be  drawn  away  to  lie  down 
and  rest  under  a  distinct  promise  that  she  should 
be  called  at  the  slightest  change. 

Dick  and  the  two  girls  wandered  in  and  out  of 
the  house,  saw  visitors  who  came  to  make  inquir- 
ies, and  killed  time  as  best  they  could,  not  liking 


228      A  Matter   of  Sentiment. 

to  speak  above  a  whisper,  unable  to  settle  to  any 
occupation.  And  so  the  weary  days  dragged  on 
and  on,  and  on  the  fifth  evening  the  change  for 
which  they  had  been  watching  came,  and  soon  the 
squire  was  at  rest. 

To  all  it  was  a  relief,  although  being  exces- 
sively sultry  it  was  terrible  to  be  in  a  house  of 
which  the  blinds  were  closely  drawn.  Then  came 
four  dreadful  days  ere  that  of  the  funeral,  and  a 
terrible  ordeal  in  the  fact  that  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  men  and  women  come  to  pay  their  last 
tribute  of  respect  to  the  dead  man. 

There  was  a  great  collation  after  the  ceremony, 
and  Dick  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  realized 
for  the  first  time  that  henceforth  this  was  his  own 
place.  Then  he  had  to  bid  adieu  to  every  one,  to 
receive  countless  messages  for  his  mother,  and, 
most  frequently  of  all,  to  reply  to  the  question 
would  he  ever  go  back  to  California,  or  not  ? 

"  Yes,  I  must  go  back,"  he  said  several  times. 
"  I  must  go  back,  if  it  is  only  to  settle  things. 
Oh,  there's  no  fear  of  my  chest  now ;  that's 
mended  long  ago.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go  back 
for  various  reasons  ;  but  of  course  my  mother  and 
sisters  will  be  here." 

"  I  wonder  how  long  the  mother  and  sisters 
will  be  there,"  said  one  country  gentleman  to  an- 
other as  they  drove  away.  "  He's  a  fine,  likely- 
looking  lad  is  Dick." 


The  Old  Squire  and  the  New. 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  very  fine  lad.  Why,  he  must  be 
getting  on  for  thirty  now." 

"  Thirty  or  odd,  my  dear  chap.  Same  age  as 
my  Tom.  I  remember  his  being  born  as  well  as 
yesterday.  And  poor  old  Vincent  was  sixty-five, 
so  he  was  thirty-five  when  Dick  was  born." 

"  That's  about  it.  Mrs.  Vincent  was  young, 
you  know.  I  don't  believe  she's  nineteen  years- 
older  than  Dick.  Never  thought  the  old  squire 
would  have  gone  off  like  that,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  was  getting  very  red 
in  the  face.  He  puffed  a  good  bit  as  he  came  up 
the  stairs  at  the  Bench.  I've  noticed  it  several 
times." 

"  Horrid  thing,  apoplexy,"  said  the  other  one. 
"  Somehow  or  another  it  always  seems  to  me  as  if 
it  was  in  a  measure  your  own  fault.  Did  it  ever 
strike  you  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes.  You  see,  the  poor  old  squire 
never  was  the  same  after  he  gave  up  hunting." 

"  Why  did  he  give  up  hunting  ?  " 

"  Why,  something  to  do  with  the  veins  of  his 
legs.  Couldn't  ride  ;  and  after  being  a  hard  rider 
to  hounds  all  his  life  it  didn't  pay  to  take  to  dod- 
dering about.  I'm  sorry  he  is  gone  ;  he  was  a 
good  sort,  never  a  better." 

Well  might  relations  and  friends  alike  regret 
the  passing  of  the  genial  old  squire  of  Holling- 
ridge  ;  but  regrets,  no  matter  how  bitter  they  are, 


23°      A   Matter   of  Sentiment. 

are  impotent  to  change  one  iota  of  the  workings 
of  Nature.  The  squire  was  gone ;  his  place 
would  know  him  no  more  ;  he  had  pottered  round 
the  stables,  and  the  glass-houses,  and  the  grounds, 
and  the  place  in  which  he  had  been  born,  and 
which  he  loved  with  all  his  heart,  for  the  last  time. 

"  Now,  dear  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent  the 
morning  after  the  funeral,  "  I  want  to  have  a 
serious  talk  with  you." 

"  No,  mother ;  it  is  not  necessary." 

"  It's  best,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  briefly,  "  to 
begin  as  we  intend  to  go  on." 

"  Yes,  dearest,  but  it  isn't  necessary  to  discuss 
that  at  present,"  said  Dick,  firmly. 

."  You  are  the  master  of  Hollingridge  now  ; 
you  are  the  squire." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Dick.  "  More's  the  pity 
it  is  so  ;  but  you  are  the  mistress.  Please  let  me 
hear  nothing  more  about  it.  I  don't  want  to  dis- 
cuss it — there's  nothing  to  discuss." 

"  But  if  you  should  marry "  began  his 

mother,  tremulously. 

"  Well,  dearest,  if  I  should  want  to  marry,  I'll 
come  and  tell  you,  and  things  will  be  made  as 
convenient  as  possible  for  you  and  the  girls.  Be- 
lieve me,  I  shall  not  spring  a  marriage  on  you,  or 
anything  else.  Don't  talk  about  changes  ;  we've 
had  one  change,  that's  enough — more  than 
enough  for  the  present." 


The  Old  Squire  and  the  New.  23* 

"  I  should  like  to  know,"  began  his  mother — 
"  I  must  know,"  she  continued,  in  a  desperate 
voice.  "  We  must  have  some  scale  of  expendi- 
ture agreed  upon." 

"  Well,  dear,  I  suppose  that's  necessary.  It 
seems  to  me  that  what  my  father  could  afford,  I 
can  afford.  You  and  the  dear  Dad  have  never 
lived  above  your  income,  and  there  can  be  no  ne- 
cessity or  occasion  to  make  any  difference  or  any 
radical  change  now.  For  the  present,  what  you 
have  been  accustomed  to  spend  will  be  the  proper 
thing  to  spend.  Let  everything  go  on  as  it  has 
done  until  some  of  us  want  to  make  a  change. 
Winifred  will  be  getting  married  by  and  by  ;  well, 
that  will  be  the  first  change ;  possibly  Laura." 

"  Possibly  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  Well,  possibly  myself;  but  I  think  not.  At 
all  events,  that  is  a  contingency  which  has  not 
arisen,  or  any  prospect  of  it ;  so  we  needn't  dis- 
cuss it  as  yet." 

"  And  you  will  go  out  to  California  ?  " 

"  I  must  go  back,  dearest,  for  a  few  months.  I 
must  arrange  either  for  the  proper  working  of  the 
place,  or  for  selling  it.  You  must  see  that  for 
yourself." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  see  plainly  enough.  But  you 
won't  stop  there  now  ?  " 

"  No,  I  shan't  stop  there.  As  ranching,  it  isn't 
worth  it,  and  an  oil  well  can  be  worked  without 


A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

personal  supervision.  Or  I  can  sell.  I  must  be 
guided  by  circumstances  as  to  which  course  I  take. 
But  you  may  be  assured  of  one  thing — that  I  shall 
not  stay  a  day  longer  than  is  absolutely  necessary. 
I  would  not  go  at  all  unless  it  were  a  necessity." 

"  I  certainly  would  not  like  to  feel  that  you 
would  go  out  there  and  remain  another  seven 
years." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  should  not  have  done  if  this  trouble 
had  not  come  upon  us.  After  all,  the  place  has 
served  my  turn.  I  went  out  with  an  awfully 
dickey  chest,  and  now  it's  as  strong  as  any  other 
part  of  me.  I  shall  never  grudge  the  years  I  have 
spent  out  there ;  constitutionally  they  made  a 
man  of  me  ;  but  for  my  pleasure — oh,  thank  you 
very  much,  I  have  had  enough  of  it." 

"  If  I  were  you,  Dick,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  "  I 
would  sell.  Supposing  your  oil  well  dried  up  ?  " 

"  That  would  be  awkward,"  said  Dick.  "  I 
don't  believe  that  oil  wells  ever  dry  up  so  soon 
as  this.  But  I  can't  settle  anything  here  on  this 
side.  I  must  do  what  I  think  is  for  the  best 
when  I  get  out  there,  face  to  face  with  those  who 
are  likely  to  want  to  buy." 

"  And  in  any  case  you  mean  to  spend  the 
greater  part  of  your  life  at  home  ?  " 

"  The  rest  of  my  life,  mother  dear,"  said  Dick. 


The   Center  of  the  World.    233 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE    CENTER    OF    THE    WORLD. 

FOR  a  few  days  after  the  squire's  funeral  Dick 
Vincent  did  not  set  foot  outside  the  estate  of 
which  he  was  now  master.  On  the  fourth  day 
his  mother  came  to  him  in  the  little  room  which 
had  been  his  father's  den. 

"  Dick,"she  said,  "  I  have  had  such  a  nice  letter 
from  your  Mrs.  Meredith." 

"  Oh,  have  you  ? "  He  looked  up  and  stretched 
out  an  arm  to  draw  her  down  upon  the  sofa  be- 
side him,  as  boys  who  are  on  very  affectionate 
terms  with  their  mother  often  do.  "  She's  a  nice 
little  woman,"  he  said,  "  a  dear  little  woman. 
And,  you  see,  she's  been  in  trouble  herself." 

"  Her  letter  is  very  sweet,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent. 
"  I  want  you  to  read  it." 

It  was  a  sweet,  sympathetic,  womanly  letter. 
"Your  son,"  it  said,  "will  have  told  you  all  the 
circumstances  in  which  I  lost  my  husband.  How 
different  to  your  own  !  You,  who  stayed  so 
many  hours  by  your  husband's  bedside,  holding 
his  hand  to  the  last,  cannot  perhaps  understand 
how  I  envy  you.  Bitter  as  your  grief  must  be, 


^34       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

you  were  together ;  I  have  always  the  anguish  of 
remembering  that  my  husband  died  without  know- 
ing whether  I  loved  him  or  not — even  without 
knowing  whether  I  was  faithful  or  not.  Dear  lady, 
we  do  not  know  each  other,  except  through  your 
charming  son,  so  good,  so  kind,  so  considerate. 
Indeed,  you  are  blessed  in  him  beyond  all  things. 
I  hope  to  meet  you  one  day,  that  I  may  tell  you 
just  how  sweet  and  good  your  son  has  been  to 
me." 

"  And  you  wouldn't  let  me  ask  them  here, 
Dick,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  reproachfully. 

For  a  moment  or  so  Dick  did  not  speak. 
"  Sometimes,  mother,"  he  said  at  last,  "  one  is 
afraid  to  do  what  one  is  most  anxious  for." 

"Then,"  said  his  mother  quickly,  and  looking 
away  out  of  the  window  in  order  that  she  might 
not  in  any  way  scare  his  confidence,  "  then  your 
old  friend's  daughter  is  more  to  you  than  an 
ordinary  girl  ? " 

"  She  is  everything  to  me,"  said  Dick,  under 
his  breath. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  her,"  said  his  mother. 
"  I  should  like  to  have  her  here." 

"  No,  I  would  rather  you  didn't.  It  is  not  at 
all  likely,  dear  mother,  that  anything  more  will 
come — will — how  shall  I  put  it  ? — will  come  of 
our  friendship." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  she  doesn't  like  you  ? " 


The   Center   of  the   World.    235 

"  No,  I  believe  she  thinks  I  am  all  right.  She 
has  never  been  other  than  perfectly  charming  to 
me." 

"  Ah,  well,  it's  early  days,"  cried  his  mother. 
"  A  pretty  girl  with  a  lot  of  money  is  not  going 
to  give  herself  away  until  the  man  has  asked  her. 
You  must  win  her,  my  dear." 

"  We  will  see,"  said  Dick.  And  a  vision  then 
of  Meredith  in  his  last  tumultuous  moments  came 
before  him.  "  I  would  like  to  explain  everything. 
I  don't  know  how  to  put  it,"  he  said,  in  a  rapid 
undertone  ;  "  I  don't  feel,  somehow,  that  Mere- 
dith would  approve.  I  have  a  very  peculiar  feel- 
ing about  Meredith.  It  isn't  her — I  can't  have 
you  blame  her  for  a  moment — she  is  too  sweet 
for  words — but  I  do  not  feel  that  she  is  for  me." 

"  There  is  something  wrong  about  her  ?  "  said 
his  mother. 

"  No,  no.  She  is  everything  that  is  good  and 
beautiful  and  charming." 

For  a  moment  his  mother  did  not  speak. 
Then,  without  looking  at  him,  for  she  was  a  very 
wise  woman  in  her  way,  she  put  her  hand  out  and 
laid  it  over  his.  "  Have  faith  in  time,  dearest 
boy,"  she  said,  "  have  faith  in  time.  It  works 
wonders." 

The  letter  to  Mrs.  Vincent  was  not  the  only 
one  which  came  from  Brighton  to  Hollingridge. 
Both  Mrs.  Meredith  and  Cynthia  wrote  to  Dick  ; 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

Cynthia  only  once,  it  is  true — a  sweet,  tender,  girl- 
ish letter,  which  1  may  as  well  confess  Dick  carried 
next  to  his  heart  for  many  a  long  day.  Mrs. 
Meredith,  however,  wrote  several  times :  frank, 
friendly  letters,  such  as  Dick  hailed  with  intensest 
satisfaction,  because  they  gave  him  news  of  Cyn- 
thia. 

During  those  few  days  Dick's  mother,  without 
seeming  to  in  any  way  spy  upon  him,  wormed  a 
good  deal  of  information  out  of  him.  She  her- 
self sympathized  with  Mrs.  Meredith's  feeling 
about  going  out  to  Santa  Clara. 

"  Dear  boy,"  she  said  one  day,  when  they  were 
sitting  together  on  the  wide  old  sofa  in  the  study, 
"  it's  a  perfectly  natural  thing  she  should  want  to 
go  out,  if  only  for  a  few  weeks." 

"  She  cannot  possibly  stay  longer  than  a  few 
weeks,"  said  Dick. 

"  I  have  always  heard  that  California  is  so 
lovely." 

"  Yes,  it  is — certain  parts  of  it,  but  not  at  Santa 
Clara.  It's  good  enough,  interesting  enough ; 
but  it's  far  from  civilization,  and  I  think  ladies 
would  be  very  unhappy  there.  Besides,  they 
couldn't  go  out  there  and  live  with  me,  and  I 
don't  intend  to  live  there  any  more,  and  they 
cannot  stop  there  long.  It's  ridiculous  .and  sense- 
less their  going  ;  I  know  perfectly  well  it  will  be 
a  most  dreadful  disappointment  to  both  of  them." 


The   Center  of  the   World.    237 

"  Well,  dear  boy,  let  me  ask  them  to  come  and 
stay  here  for  a  few  days.  Of  course,  just  now,  I 
couldn't  have  anybody  excepting  some  one  cir- 
cumstanced as  she  is,  in  such  deep  mourning  and 
your  partner's  widow  and  child.  It  would  seem 
quite  natural  that  they  should  come  and  see  me 
before  any  of  you  go  away.  I  might  be  able  to 
persuade  her  to  stop  in  England." 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  might.  I  would  try,  since  you  wish 
it  so  much  ;  but,  all  the  same,  I  do  sympathize 
with  her  in  a  way,  Dick." 

"  Yes,  darling,  I  sympathize  with  her,  too,  in  a 
way,  but  not  'exactly  in  the  same  way.  It  isn't  a 
place  for  women.  If  she  had  gone  out  to  Mere- 
dith, Meredith  would  have  spent  a  lot  of  money 
in  putting  things  to  rights.  He  would  have 
got  up  some  Chinese  servants  and  a  lot  of 
furniture,  and  added  a  wing  to  the  house,  and  so 
on  ;  but  it  wouldn't  be  worth  doing  now,  and  I 
am  afraid  she  would  be  thoroughly  disillusioned." 

"  Well,  now,  listen  to  me.  I  will  write  and 
ask  her  to  come  and  spend  a  few  days  here,  and  if 
I  can  persuade  her  off  the  scheme,  I  will  do  it, 

•cause  you  don't  want  her  to  go.     I  think  you 

raid  always  be  glad  that  we  had  done  the  right 
thing  and  invited  them ;  and  you  would  like  to 
see  the  girl  here  before  anything  definite  was 
settled  between  you  ;  of  that  I  am  quite  sure.  See 


how  she  strikes  you  here  with  your  own  sisters, 
in  your  own  home." 

"  She  will  never  strike  me  any  differently, 
mother,"  said  Dick,  "  but  since  you  wish  it  so 
much  and  are  so  kind  about  it,  I  will  write  and 
beg  them  to  come  when  you  ask  them." 

"  Very  well,  dear,  I'll  write  at  once,  because 
your  time  is  getting  within  a  limit  now." 

"  Yes,  I  must  start  within  a  month.  I  ought 
to  go  a  little  sooner  than  that,  if  you  could  spare 
me." 

"  Dear  boy,  for  business  I  must  spare  you," 
said  she,  quietly. 

Mrs.  Vincent  went  away  then,  thoroughly 
gratified  at  having  obtained  her  own  way.  In  her 
own  mind  she  was  perfectly  sure,  from  the  tone 
of  Mrs.  Meredith's  letters,  that  she  was  as  keen  on 
keeping  the  oil  well  to  one  ownership  as  Mrs  Vin- 
cent herself.  "  Is  it  likely,  a  pretty  girl  with  all 
that  money,  that  she  wouldn't  feel  it  a  perfect  sin 
to  let  the  other  half  of  the  splendid  property  slip? 
Of  course  not.  Why,  it  would  be  no  more  nor 
less  than  a  sin,"  her  thoughts  ran. 

So  by  that  evening's  post  two  letters  went  from 
Hollingridge  to  Brighton;  one  couched  in  the 
most  kind  and  friendly  terms  from  Mrs.  Vincent 
to  Cynthia's  mother. 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  understand  how  much  I 
desire  to  see  you,"  she  wrote.  "It  would  be  a 


The   Center  of  the  World.    239 

great  comfort  to  me  if  you  would  come  and  spend 
a  few  days  with  us  here.  As  we  are  both  in  deep 
mourning,  neither  of  us  will  feel  the  retirement 
of  the  other.  My  boy  has  told  me  a  great  deal 
about  you  and  your  charming  daughter,  and  my 
girls  are  quite  as  eager  to  see  her  as  I  am  to  see 
you." 

The  other  letter  was  from  Dick  to  Cynthia. 
"  I  am  writing  to  you  because  my  mother  is  writ- 
ing to  yours  to  beg  you  to  come  and  stay  with  us 
for  a  few  days.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  much 
pleasure  it  will  give  me  if  you  accept  her  invita- 
tion." And  as  Mrs.  Vincent  had  fully  antici- 
pated, by  return  of  post  came  back  a  most  pleas- 
ant letter  from  the  little  widow,  saying  that  she 
and  Cynthia  would  love  to  pay  a  visit  to  Holling- 
ridge  and  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Dick's 
people. 

Dick  received  the  news  with  a  certain  pang  of 
apprehension  and  regret,  and  yet — yet — every 
pulse  in  his  body  was  stirred  with  a  strange  joy. 
He  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  that  in  any  case 
he  must  disclose  the  truth  to  Cynthia.  Yes,  it 
must  be  done  sooner  or  later.  Of  course,  he  could 
not  do  it  in  his  own  house,  that  was  impossible  ; 
but  he  would  tell  her,  the  evening  before  the  day 
on  which  they  would  depart,  that  he  was  coming 
down  to  Brighton  to  see  her,  because  he  had  a  very 
serious  communication  to  make  to  her.  That 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

would  prepare  her  mind  for  a  disclosure  ;  it  would 
quite  prevent  his  being  put  offby  untoward  circum- 
stances. He  would  make  the  appointment  to 
meet  Cynthia,  say  up  on  the  Rottingdean  Road, 
before  she  left  Hollingridge,  so  that  they  would 
not  be  dependent  on  any  mood  or  fancy  of  her 
mother's.  Yes,  that  was  what  he  would  do,  and 
after  that  would  come  the  deluge.  When  it  was 
all  over  he  knew  that  he  would  be  happier,  oh, 
yes.  With  a  firm  hand  he  would  have  shut  down 
the  curtain  between  himself  and  happiness  ;  he 
would  have  gained  in  self-respect.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  him  that  possibly  Cynthia  Meredith 
might  take  exactly  the  opposite  view  to  that  with 
which  he  had  accredited  her,  that  she  might  say, 
just  as  the  disinterested  man  who  had  witnessed 
the  whole  affair  had  said  at  the  time,  that  he  was 
in  reality  blameless,  because  he  had  only  acted  from 
an  instinct  of  self-preservation.  To  such  a  con- 
tingency he  never  gave  the  remotest  thought,  and 
he  drove  to  the  station  to  meet  the  mother  and 
daughter  very  much  as  a  man  might  have  driven 
to  meet  his  fate  upon  the  scaffold,  feeling  absolute- 
ly assured  in  his  mind  that  the  first  time  they 
came  to  visit  his  ancestral  home  would  be  the  last. 
It  was  naturally  not  in  any  sense  a  gay  party 
that  met  round  the  table  at  dinner  that  evening, 
since  both  hosts  and  'guests  were  in  the  deepest  of 
deep  mourning.  To  Mrs.  Meredith  Dick's 


The   Center  of  the   World. 

mother  took  at  once.  She  herself  was  large  and 
fair  and  commanding,  with  an  inclination  to  softness 
which  meant  that  with  a  little  trouble  anybody  who 
loved  her  could  easily  get  round  her.  She  ad- 
mired with  all  her  soul  the  tenacity  which  she  rec- 
ognized in  Roger  Meredith's  widow ;  she  would 
really  have  loved  herself  to  be  a  soft-voiced,  vel- 
vet-handed woman  with  a  will  of  iron.  There 
was  no  iron  in  Mrs.  Vincent's  will ;  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith's, on  the  contrary,  was  cold  steel.  With 
Cynthia  she  was  charmed.  Even  against  her 
own  handsome,  well-bred,  intelligent,  interesting 
daughters  Cynthia  showed  up  brilliantly.  Her 
delicate  beauty,  her  sweet,  soft,  yet  direct  manner, 
her  dainty  little  ways,  to  say  nothing  of  the  oil 
well,  all  made  Mrs.  Vincent  determined  that,  if 
she  could  help  it,  Dick  should  not  throw  away 
such  an  excellent  chance  of  settling  himself  in  life. 

"  The  girl  is  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with 
him,"  she  explained  to  Laura,  when  they  were 
chatting  the  last  thing  that  night.  "  What  can  he 
be  hanging  about  for  ?  Says  he  feels  Meredith 
would  not  like  it.  Mrs.  Meredith  would  like  it, 
one  can  see  that  with  half  an  eye." 

"  I  shouldn't  interfere  with  Dick's  affairs  if  I 
were  you,"  said  Laura. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  interfere,  but  if  a  little 
judicious  tact  will  help  it  along — well,  Dick  shall 
not  miss  a  good  chance  for  want  of  it." 


A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

She  was  very  tactful  and  very  judicious  during 
the  few  days  which  followed.  She  devoted  her- 
self to  Mrs.  Meredith,  and  Mrs.  Meredith  was 
more  than  willing  that  she  should  be  the  recipient 
of  so  much  attention. 

"  I  shall  call  you  Cynthia,  my  dear,"  Mrs. 
Vincent  said  to  the  girl  during  the  course  of  the 
first  evening. 

<c  Oh,  yes,  please  do." 

"  Well,  it  is  rather  early  days,  but  you  don't 
look  like  f  Miss  Meredith '  to  me,  and  Cynthia 
is  such  a  charming  name." 

"  I  should  love  you  to  call  me  Cynthia,"  said 
the  girl,  turning  a  vivid  scarlet. 

"  You  must  let  Dick  take  you  to  this  place," 
Mrs.  Vincent  would  say,  or  "  Dick  must  show 
you  the  other.  We  old  ladies  will  amuse  our- 
selves very  well,  shall  we  not,  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith ?  " 

"Oh,  perfectly." 

And  so,  having  started  the  young  people  out 
on  some  excursion,  the  Vincent  girls  with  veiled 
instructions  to  judiciously  efface  or  lose  them- 
selves, as  was  necessary,  the  two  mothers  would 
go  out  for  a  stately  drive,  or  sit  toying  with  some 
bit  of  fancy  work  in  drawing-room  or  garden. 

"  You  like  Hollingridge  ? "  said  Dick  one  day 
to  Cynthia. 

She  turned  her  deep  gray  eyes,  upon   him  in 


The   Center  of  the  World.    243 

wonderment.  "Like  it?"  she  said.  "How 
could  I  help  liking  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  might  not.  Everybody  doesn't. 
To  me  it  is  the  center  of  the  world." 

"  You  are  very  lucky,"  said  Cynthia. 


244       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  HAND  TO  THE  PLOUGH. 

IT  was  the  very  last  day  of  Mrs.  Meredith's 
and  Cynthia's  visit  to  Hollingridge. 

"  I  am  going,"  announced  Mrs.  Vincent  at 
breakfast,  "  to  drive  Mrs.  Meredith  over  to  Fox- 
borough  to  lunch.  Who  is  going  with  us  ?  " 

"  I  can't  go,"  said  Laura.  "  I  have  my  sing- 
ing lesson  at  three  o'clock.  And  Winifred  won't 
be  able  to  go,  since  she  has  such  a  bad  head- 
ache." 

"  Then  what  about  you  two  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent, looking  vaguely  across  the  table  at  her  son 
and  Cynthia. 

Cynthia  said  politely  that  she  would  do  just  as 
Mrs.  Vincent  liked.  Dick,  however,  distinctly 
demurred. 

"  Oh,  do  you  much  want  to  go  ?  Do  you  like 
babies  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mind  babies,"  she  said  with  a  laugh. 

"  No,  I  don't  mind  babies  in  a  general  way  ;  I 
rather  like  'em,  But  Maud's  baby — the  last  one 
— is  a  person  that  squalls.  They  ought  to  give 
him  peppermint — or  absinthe — or  something." 


The   Hand  to  the   Plough.     245 

"  Oh,  poor  little  thing,  he's  after  his  teeth," 
cried  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"  Is  he  !  Well,  I  don't  see  why  we  should  be 
after  him.  Don't  go,  Miss  Cynthia — don't  go. 
Stay  at  home,  and  when  we  have  packed  Laura 
off  to  her  singing  lesson,  I'll  take  you  up  to  the 
very  top  of  the  woods.  You  get  one  of  the 
finest  bits  of  view  in  the  country.  You  ought  not 
to  go  away  without  seeing  it." 

"  I'll  do  just  what  you  like." 

"  Well,  are  you  really  anxious  to  see  babies?  " 
cried  Mrs.  Vincent.  "  No  ?  Then  we'll  go 
alone.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"Just  as  you  like,"  replied  Mrs.  Meredith. 
"  I  should  certainly  like  to  see  your  daughter's 
place.  Yes,  I  should  certainly  like  to  see  it. 
And  I  rather  like  babies,  even  when  they  are 
after  their  teeth." 

So  it  was  arranged  and  definitely  settled.  At 
twelve  o'clock  Mrs.  Vincent  and  her  guest  drove 
away  in  state  in  the  open  carriage. 

"  I  consider,"  said  Dick,  as  he  stood  at  the 
great  entrance,  watching  the  disappearing  vehicle, 
"  I  consider  that  I  got  you  out  of  that  very 
cleverly." 

"  You  did,  dear  boy,"  cried  Laura.  "  It's  the 
only  subject,  as  we  often  tell  my  mother,  on  which 
she  is  absolutely — well,  how  shall  I  put  it  ? — off 
her  mental  balance ;  and  that's  the  grandson. 


24^      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

He's  a  nice  little  kid  as  kids  go,  but  it  does  get  a 
little  tiresome,  I'm  fain  to  admit  it.  Well,  now, 
I  suppose  you  two  don't  want  me  ?  You  can 
manage  to  entertain  each  other,  because  I  really 
must  try  over  that  new  song  of  mine.  I  have 
done  shamefully  little  lately,  and  Madame  gets 
so  cross  when  I  am  not  up  to  the  mark." 

"  Oh,  we'll  manage  to  amuse  ourselves,"  cried 
Dick.  "  Come  along,  Miss  Cynthia." 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ? "  said  Cynthia,  as  Laura 
disappeared  towards  the  music-room. 

Dick  turned  and  looked  at  her  rather  doubt- 
fully. "  It's  blisteringly  hot,"  he  remarked. 
"  Don't  let  us  go  too  far." 

"  Well,  wait  till  I  get  a  parasol,"  she  rejoined. 
"  Then  let  us  go  just  through  the  shrubbery — 
where  that  little  stream  runs  by  the  garden  and 
the  park.  I  always  think  it's  the  prettiest  bit  of 
your  whole  domain." 

He  flushed  up  with  pleasure  at  her  words. 
She  turned  back  into  the  hall  and  took  a  large 
black  parasol  from  its  place  and  announced  that 
she  was  ready. 

"  I  never  saw  any  one  take  so  little  time  as  you 
do." 

"  What,  in  the  country  ?  "  Cynthia  exclaimed. 
"  I  don't  say  that  I  should  take  as  little  time  to 
get  ready  if  I  were  in  London,  or  even  in  Brigh- 
ton ;  but  here — why,  one  is  always  ready." 


The    Hand   to   the    Plough. 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  not  every  young  lady 
would  think  so." 

"  Ah !  there  are  young  ladies  and  young 
ladies,"  cried  Cynthia ;  "  and  I  am  afraid  my 
training  has  been  never  to  waste  a  moment  in  un- 
necessary adornment." 

As  she  spoke,  she  passed  through  the  little  gate 
which  divided  the  west  garden  from  the  shrub- 
bery. 

"  Few  young  ladies  have  so  little  need  of  it," 
said  he,  as  he  shut  the  gate  again. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  think  that? " 

"  Indeed,  I  do  think  that.     I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  Ah,  you  shouldn't  say  so.  Flattery  is  so  bad 
for  one." 

"  Flattery  ?  Did  you  think  that  I  was  flatter- 
ing you  ? " 

"  I  am  quite  sure  that  you  were." 

"  No,  no.     I  was  telling  you  the  truth." 

"  Ah,  well,  it  isn't  often  the  truth  is  so  very 
palatable,  Mr.  Vincent.  Now,  isn't  this  deli- 
cious ?  " 

She  sank  down  as  she  spoke  upon  the  mossy 
bank  of  a  tiny  rippling  stream.  The  park  beyond 
was  green  and  fresh ;  the  shrubbery  behind  was 
cool  and  still.  "  I  always  say  this  is  the  prettiest 
corner  of  your  domain,"  she  said. 

"  Wait  till  you  have  seen  the  top  of  the  woods, 
that's  pretty  if  you  like."  He  settled  himself 


24-8      A   Matter  of  Sentiment 

down  beside  her  on  the  bank  as  he  spoke.  "  Do 
you  know,  Miss  Cynthia,  I'm  awfully  glad  you 
didn't  go  over  to  Foxborough  to-day." 

"  Are  you  ?  Why  ?  Don't  you  like  your 
sister  ?  " 

"  My  sister  ?  Oh,  yes,  she's  awfully  jolly. 
But  I  like  better  to  have  you  here." 

"  Oh,  do  you  ?  "  It  was  a  trite  remark,  but  it 
was  the  best  that  Cynthia  could  think  of  at  that 
moment.  "  Is  there  anything  like  this  in  Cali- 
fornia ?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

For  a  moment  Dick  did  not  reply.  Then  he 
began  picking  up  bits  of  sticks,  pebbles,  and  tufts 
of  grass  and  throwing  them  down  into  the  quickly 
running  stream  at  their  feet.  "  There  are  lovely 
places  in  California,"  he  replied,  "  but  none  where 
Santa  Clara  is.  Santa  Clara  has  no  beauty  to 
boast  of — none." 

A  sudden  impulse  came  over  him  that  now  was 
the  best  time  and  chance  he  would  ever  have  for 
telling  her  the  hateful  secret  that  was  weighing  so 
heavily  upon  him.  "  Miss  Meredith,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  apprehensively.     "  Yes." 

"  I've  got  something  to  tell  you." 

"  What  sort  of  a  something  ?  "  Her  voice 
trembled,  and  so  did  the  hand  which  was  resting 
idly  on  her  knee. 

"  Well,  it's  a  very  important  matter.  I  have 
been  wanting  to  speak  to  you  about  it  for 


The   Hand   to   the   Plough.     249 

ever  so  long,  and  I  think  as  we  have  got  now  so 
near  to  the  time  when  we  must — at  least,  the  time 
when  we  have  settled  to  take  a  long  journey  to- 
gether— it  would  be  better  if  I  told  you  exactly 
what  is  in  my  mind,  and  then  if  you  feel  any  dif- 
ferently towards  me " 

She  turned  upon  him  with  a  delicate  little 
laugh.  "  Oh,  there  isn't  any  fear  of  that.  It's  no 
use  my  pretending  that — I  don't  know — what 
you " 

"  Don't  know  what  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  you  are  going  to  say." 

Her  eyes  were  downcast,  a  happy  blush  over- 
spread her  cheeks,  and  her  hand  toyed  nervously 
with  the  fringed  trimming  of  her  gown. 

For  a  moment  Dick  stared  at  her  in  incredu- 
lous amazement.  Then  he  drew  a  trifle  nearer 
her.  "  Cynthia  !  "  he  barely  breathed  the  word. 

"  Well  ?  "  There  was  enough  expressed  in  the 
word  to  have  move4  the  heart  of  a  stone,  and 
Dick  Vincent  was  no  stone. 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  "  he  gasped. 

She  looked  at  him  at  last.  "  Well,  is  it  so  very 
wonderful  ?  Have  I  known  so  many  men  like 
you  that  it  should  be  wonderful  that  I — well,  that 
you — well,  that  I  like  you  ?" 

"  Cynchia ! " 

In  a  moment  he  had  forgotten  everything — 
everything. 


A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Oh,    my   darling,    my    darling ! "    he    cried 
"  Do  you  really  mean  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  cried  Cynthia,  midway  be- 
tween tears  and  laughter.  "  I  don't  know  that  J 
said  anything,  or  meant  anything — but,  oh,  Dick, 
I  am  so  happy  !  " 

And  then,  somehow,  Dick's  arms  stole  around 
her  and  their  lips  met. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  they  came  to  their 
ordinary  senses  again. 

"  What  will  your  mother  say  ?  "  cried  Cyn- 
thia. 

"  What  will  yours  say  ?  "  replied  Dick. 

"  Oh,  well,  as  to  that,"  with  an  arch  laugh,  "  I 
don't  think  they  will  say  much,  because,  you 
know,  we  are  the  twin  halves  of  an  oil  well,  aren't 
we?" 

"  Oh,  hang  the  oil  well !  "  cried  Dick. 

"  No,  no.  An  oil  well  must  be  a  most  comfort- 
able thing.  I  know  it  has  made  all  the  difference 
in  my  life." 

"  But  you  would  have  loved  me  just  the  same 
if  I  hadn't  had  a  penny  ?  " 

"Yes,  Dick,  if  you  hadn't  had  a  single  penny." 

"  You  are  sure  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  would  have  loved  you  just  the  same 
if  you  hadn't  had  a  farthing." 

"  Dearest  ! " 

They  sat  so  long  by  the  bank  of  the  little  stream 


The   Hand   to   the   Plough.     251 

that  they  forgot  all  mundane  things  until  the 
sound  of  the  luncheon  gong  came  booming 
through  the  still  autumn  air. 

"  That's  lunch,"  cried  Cynthia,  starting  to  her 
feet. 

"  Never  mind." 

"  But  we  are  late." 

"  Never  mind." 

"  Oh,  but  what  will  they  say  ?  What  will  they 
think  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  Our  respected  mothers  are  gone  to 
lunch  at  Foxborough." 

"  But  your  sisters  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  My  sisters  ?  The  girls  ?  What  will  they 
think  ?  I  don't  know.  I  don't  much  care  ;  I 
don't  care  what  anybody  thinks  as  long  as  you  are 
satisfied  and  content.  Besides,  what  should  they 
think  ?  It  will  make  very  little  difference  to  them. 
My  mother  has  been  worrying  me  to  get  married 
ever  since  I  came  home." 

"  Not  really  ?  " 

"  Of  course  she  has." 

"  To  somebody  in  particular  ?  "  asked  Cynthia, 
jealously. 

"  Well,  no,  I  can't  say  that  she  has.  Oh,  no, 
don't  worry  about  any  of  my  people  or  what  they 
will  say.  I'm  a  free  agent,  if  ever  there  was  one. 
You  needn't  have  the  smallest  fear  of  my  mother," 
said  he,  as  they  went  quickly  towards  the  house. 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  If  ever  a  hostess  gave  a  girl  a  fair  chance,  I  con- 
sider that  she  has  done  as  much  for  you." 

"  But  you  won't  tell  anybody  ? " 

"  We  must  tell  them  when  they  come  in." 

"  But  you  won't  tell  your  sisters  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no.  We'll  keep  it  for  the  mothers, 
and  let  them  have  the  first  news." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Cynthia,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief. 

All  the  same,  the  moment  that  Laura  cast  her 
keen  eyes  upon  the  pair,  she  knew  instinctively 
what  had  happened. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  as  they  gathered  round  the 
table,  "  and  what  do  you  think  of  the  top  of  the 
woods  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we've  not  been  to  the  top  of  the  woods. 
We've  only  been  down  through  the  shrubbery 
and  round  by  the  Skilpenbeck." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  the  top  or 
the  woods  to  see  the  view." 

"  Later  on — later  on,"  Dick  said,  "  after  lunch." 

"  I  think  the  little  bit  by  the  beck  is  charming," 
said  Cynthia,  carefully  avoiding  meeting  her 
future  sister-in-law's  eye. 

"  It  is— isn't  it  ?  " 

At  this  point  Laura  shot  a  meaning  glance  at 
Winifred.  Winifred  failed  to  understand,  and 
sent  a  shaft  of  inquiry  back  by  the  same  method 
of  wireless  telegraphy.  Cynthia  intercepted  both 


The  Hand  to  the  Plough.     253 

looks,  and  blushed  a  furiously  rosy  red,  seeing 
which  Laura  was  wicked  enough  to  laugh  outright. 
She  followed  Cynthia  into  the  drawing-room  after 
the  meal  was  over. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  so  you  have  made  up 
your  minds  ? " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Cynthia. 

"  Oh,  the  usual  thing.  You  and  Dick,  of 
course.  You  needn't  think  I  didn't  see,  the 
moment  you  came  in,  my  dear — the  moment 
you  came  in." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Cynthia. 

"  Well,  I'm  delighted.  I  think  it  would  have 
been  a  great  pity  to  divide  the  oil  well,  and  you 
are  too  charming  for  any  words  to  express.  Not, 
mind  you,  that  the  oil  w.ell  has  had  anything  to 
do  with  Dick.  I  know  Dick,  my  dear,  inside 
out.  I  have  never  seen  Dick  look  at  a  woman 
before.  He  exists  for  you." 

"  You  think  he  does  ?  You  think  he  really 
cares  for  me  ?  It  seems  so  impossible." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  should  never  make  you  understand. 
I  have  never  been  in  the  way  of  young  men,  of 
any  sort  of  young  men,  to  say  nothing  of  their 
being  like  Dick.  Do  you  think  your  mother  will 
mind  ?  " 

"  My  mother  ?  No.  I  think  my  mother  will 
make  you  an  excellent  mother-in-law,  and  she 


254      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

will  be  very  fond  of  her  daughter-in-law  and 
proud  of  her.  But  remember  I  was  the  first  one 
to  wish  you  happiness.  You  know  Dick  and  I 
have  always  been  the  chums  of  the  family,  far 
more  so  than  any  of  the  others,  and  so  I  shall 
expect  you  to  be  great  friends  with  me,  because 
I'm  not  going  to  give  up  my  friendship  with 
Dick  because  you  and  he  choose  to  get  married. 
Pray,  don't  think  it  for  a  moment." 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  cried  Cynthia,  fervently. 
"  I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  Dick's  love  for 
his  people  in  any  way." 

"  You  can't  help  it  to  a  certain  extent,"  cried 
Laura.  "  But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there." 

"  And  you  think  your  mother  won't  mind  ?  " 

"  I  think  she  won't,"  said  Laura,  dryly.  "  I 
don't  think  anybody  will  mind.  It's  an  ideal 
marriage,  for  you  are  both  desperately  in  love 
with  one  another,  as  anybody  can  see.  I  saw  it 
as  soon  as  you  got  here." 

"  What  ?     Did  I  give  myself  away  so  much  ?  " 

"  Oh,  girls  know,  trust  them.  What  makes  it 
so  ideal  is  that  your  old  oil  well  is  nothing  but  an 
adjunct — and  it  might  have  been  the  principal 
factor.  Well,  I'll  leave  you  to  your  own  devices 
without  any  apology.  Winifred  and  I  are  going 
to  drive  into  town  to-day  for  various  little  things. 
Is  there  anything  you  want?" 

"  Not  a  thing,  thank  you." 


"  I  dare  say  not.  You'll  have  Dick  to  look 
after  you.  I  wonder  where  he  is  now  ?  " 

It  happened  at  that  very  moment  that  Dick 
was  sitting  in  the  den  which  he  called  his  study. 
He  was  sitting  in  his  father's  great  writing-chair 
at  the  carved  oak  desk  which  was  the  principal 
piece  of  furniture  in  the  apartment.  He  did  not 
look  in  all  respects  like  a  happy  lover.  He  was 
resting  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  chin  on 
his  hands. 

"There's  no  turning  back  now,"  his  sombre 
thoughts  ran.  "  God  knows  I  had  no  intention 
to  speak,  to  betray  myself.  She  spoke  out  of  the 
innocence  of  her  dear  heart ;  I  can  never  say  a 
word  now.  I  have  done  it  all  unwittingly,  and  I 
must  keep  it  up.  I  have  put  my  hand  to  the 
plough  ;  there  can  be  no  looking  backwards." 


256       A  Matter  of  Sentiment, 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

AN  ENGAGEMENT  RING. 

"  I  DON'T  think,"  said  Dick  Vincent  to 
Cynthia,  when  they  had  seen  the  girls  drive  off 
about  their  own  particular  affairs  in  the  little  pony 
cart  which  they  called  their  own,  "  I  don't  think 
we  will  go  to  the  woods  this  afternoon." 

"  No  ?  "  said  Cynthia.     "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Well,  we've  got  other  fish  to  fry.  The 
mothers  are  safe  at  Foxborough,  the  girls  have 
gone  to  Littlebourne ;  supposing  that  you  and  I, 
being  left  to  our  own  devices,  drive  over  to  New- 
borough  ?  " 

"  What  is  there  at  Newborough  ? "  asked 
Cynthia. 

"  Well,  there  are  shops,"  he  replied ;  "jewel- 
lers' shops.  I  shall  want  to  buy  you  an  engage- 
ment ring." 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  to  have  an  engagement 
ring,"  said  Cynthia,  very  decidedly.  "  I  don't 
know  that  I  shall  feel  that  I'm  really  engaged  un- 
til I've  got  one.  But  won't  you  break  it  to  your 
mother  first  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  so,     I    don't   think  that   the 


An   Engagement  Ring. 

occasion  will  necessitate  any  particular  preparation 
in  that  way.  Your  mother  may  insist  upon  your 
leaving  to-morrow,  as  was  originally  agreed.  We 
had  better  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,  and 
get  our  ring  whilst  we've  got  a  chance." 

"  I  don't  mind,"  said  Cynthia.  "  I  should 
love  it.  How  shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  won't  mind  the  dog-cart,  will 
you  ?  " 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world  ;  it's  all  one  to 
me.  My  experience  of  carriages  has  been  very 
very  limited,  I  assure  you." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  order  it  at  once.  You'll  put 
a  coat  on,  won't  you  ?  Because  it  will  be  a  little 
chilly  coming  back,  and  it  is  sure  to  be  rather 
dusty." 

"  Yes,  I'll  put  a  coat  on,"  she  replied. 

She  went  away  to  her  room  then  and  made 
some  slight  addition  to  her  toilette,  among  them 
them  being  a  very  smart  coat  of  dark  gray  tweed. 

It  was  between  six  and  seven  ere  they  turned 
in  again  at  the  lodge  gates.  Mrs.  Vincent  saw 
them  come  up  the  avenue,  and  she  knew  in  a 
moment  what  had  come  about  during  her  absence. 
She  was  a  good  mother,  she  had  no  second 
thought  in  her  mind,  none  of  the  traditional 
"  My  son  is  my  son  till  he  gets  him  a  wife  " 
feeling,  but  she  genuinely  rejoiced  that  this  beau- 
tiful girl  should  be  bringing  the  other  half  of  the 
17 


258      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

oil  well  into  family  property.  She  went  along 
the  veranda  to  the  portico  to  meet  them. 

"  Ah,  -my  dears,"  she  said,  "  no  need  to  ask 
whether  you  have  had  a  good  time." 

"  The  best  of  all  times,  mother,"  said  Dick  ; 
"  for  I've  brought  you  back  a  daughter-in-law." 

"  I  was  hoping  that  you  might  do  so,"  said 
Mrs.  Vincent.  Then  she  turned  and  took  the 
girl's  hand  in  hers.  "  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  I 
won't  say  that  I  hope  you  will  be  happy,  because 
I  know  that  you  will.  A  good  son  makes  a  good 
husband,  and  a  good  daughter  makes  a  good  wife. 
You  two  have  always  been  good  to  your  mothers, 
and  you  deserve  happiness,  and  you  will  certainly 
have  it.  Come,  your  own  little  mother  is  sitting 
round  here.  Let  us  go  and  break  the  news  to  her." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Vincent,"  cried  Cynthia,  "  how 
kind  you  are !  Are  you  sure  that  you  don't 
mind  ?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  quite  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent. 
"  I'm  positive — certain  sure.  I  have  been,  my 
dear,  so  happy  in  my  life  here,  so  pleased  in  every 
possible  way,  that  I  want  my  son  to  have  as  good 
a  time  as  I  have  had.  My  dear  friend,"  she  went 
on,  advancing  to  where  Mrs.  Meredith  was  sitting 
and  laying  her  hands  on  the  back  of  that  lady's 
chair,  "  what  you  and  I  were  talking  of  as  a  very 
desirable  but  remote  contingency  has  come  about. 
These  young  people  have  made  up  their  minds, 


An   Engagement   Ring.       259 

whilst  you  and  I  have  been  given  over  to  baby 
worship.  Come — say  that  you  are  glad  ;  Dick 
and  Cynthia  are  engaged  to  each  other." 

Mrs.  Meredith  jumped  out  of  her  chair,  the 
liveliest  expression  of  surprise  upon  her  still 
pretty  face.  "  No,  you  don't  mean  it  ?  Oh,  my 
dear  children,  I  didn't  dare  to  hope  that  you 
would  make  up  your  minds  so  quickly." 

"  Oh,  I  made  up  my  mind  ages  since,"  said 
Dick. 

"  And  I,"  cried  Cynthia,  "  I  didn't  know  that 
I  had  any  mind  to  make  up.  I  didn't  know  that 
Dick  would  ever  look  at  me." 

"  Ah,  my  dear,"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent,  "  genuine 
modesty  is  a  beautiful  quality,  as  rare  as  it  is  beau- 
tiful. But  now,  my  dear  Mrs.  Meredith,  there 
will  of  course,  be  no  question  of  your  going  away 
to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  began  Mrs.  Meredith. 

"  But  I  know ;  I  know.  And  Dick's  time  is 
getting  short  now,  and  I  suppose  he  will  want  to 
see  as  much  of  his  fiancee  as  possible  before  he 
goes  out  again.  Oh,  you  must  stay  a  few  days 
longer ;  I  won't  hear  of  any  other  arrangement." 

Nobody  being  particularly  anxious  to  suggest 
any  different  arrangement,  the  suggestion  was  not 
in  any  way  disputed.  The  engagement  was  made 
public  immediately.  Mrs.  Vincent  told  some  of 
the  elder  servants,  and  intimated  that  in  consc- 


a6o      A   Matter   of  Sentiment. 

quence  of  the  deep  mourning  of  the  family  no 
kind  of  demonstration  was  to  be  made.  It  was 
astonishing  how  very  soon  Cynthia  took  her  place 
as  one  of  the  family,  and  Mrs.  Meredith,  who 
had  for  years  been  entirely  cut  off  from  association, 
that  is  to  say,  intimate  association,  with  her  own 
kind,  found  herself  making  all  manner  of  plans 
for  the  future  in  conjunction  with  Dick's  mother. 

"  When  we  have  settled  our  children,"  said 
Mrs.  Vincent,  "  you  and  I  must  go  off  on  our 
travels  and  see  what  we  can  do  to  amuse  our- 
selves. We  are  so  nearly  of  an  age,  dear  Mrs. 
Meredith,  and  our  interests  will  be  so  closely 
joined  that  we  ought  to  practically  cast  in  our  lot 
together.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  In  a  great  measure  I  think  it  would  be  very 
wise,"  Mrs.  Meredith  replied ;  "  but  I  shall  not 
expect  to  be  entirely  cut  off  from  my  daughter." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  ;  certainly  not ;  no  more  than  I 
from  my  only  son.  But  I  do  believe  in  young 
people  having  their  house  to  themselves,  don't 
you?" 

"  Oh,  I  certainly  do.  But  I  think  that  I  shall 
go  to  town  and  instal  myself  in  a  pleasant  flat. 
We  might  if  we  each  had  our  pied  a  terre,  spend 
a  great  deal  of  our  time  together.  It  would  be  a 
most  delightful  arrangement,  unless  indeed  I 
should  be  so  enamored  of  California  that  I 
should  want  to  stay  out  there  permanently." 


An   Engagement   Ring. 

Mrs.  Vincent's  jaw  fell.  "  To  stay  out  in  Cali- 
fornia ?  What,  alone  ?  " 

"  I  might  do  so ;  more  impossible  things  have 
happened.  I  have  always  had  a  desire  to  see 
that  part  of  the  world,  always ;  and  since  my 
husband's  death,  I  have  longed  more  than  ever 
to  gratify  my  wish.  I  feel,  somehow,  as  if  it  was 
my  fate  to  go  out  there." 

"  After  they  are  married,"  breathed  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent. 

"  I  haven't  thought  about  it  since  there  was 
the  idea  of  their  being  married.  I  want  to  go, 
and  the  sooner  the  better." 

"  Dick,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent  that  night,  when 
she  was  going  to  bed,  "  come  into  my  room  for 
ten  minutes  ;  I  have  somethingtto  tell  you." 

"  All  right,"  was  his  muttered  reply. 

Accordingly,  a  few  minutes  later,  he  demanded 
admittance  at  her  door. 

"  Come  in,  Dick  dear,"  Mrs.  Vincent  said,  "  I 
want  to  ask  you  something.  When  are  you  go- 
ing to  be  married?  " 

"  As  soon  as  J  come  back  from  California." 

"  But  do  you  intend  to  go  out  there  again  ?  " 

"  Oh,  1  don't  think  so ;  not  for  ever  so  long. 
Why  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  that  Mrs.  Meredith  intends 
going  out  ? " 

«  No." 


262      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  She  does." 

"  I  know  she  did  intend  going  out,"  Dick  re- 
plied. 

"  Do  you  want  her  to  go  ?  " 

"  No,  I'd  rather  she  didn't.  It's  no  place  for 
a  lady.  It's  a  beastly  journey,  very  inconvenient 
and  very  fatiguing.  I've  told  her  so. 

"  But  still,  you  consented  to  her  going." 

"  I  couldn't  help  myself,  mother.  She  has  a 
right  to  go  if  she  chooses." 

"  She  means  to  go  out  with  you  still." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  can't  help  it.  She  must  do  as ' 
she  likes.  I'll  talk  to  Cynthia  about  it.  I  wish 
she  wouldn't,  because  I  know  they'll  both  hate 
it.  And  I  should  hate  it,  too — as  much  as  I  could 
hate  anything  connected  with  Cynthia.  However, 
I'll  talk  to  her  about  it." 

"  What  I  mean  is  this,"  said  his  mother.  "It 
isn't  that  I  mind  whether  she  chooses  to  go  to 
California  or  not ;  it's  no  business  of  mine,  and  I 
don't  intend  to  make  it  so.  Only  you  talked  to 
me  of  your  marriage  coming  off  as  soon  as  you 
got  back.  Now  your  marriage  can't  come  off  as 
soon  as  you  come  back  unless  you  give  the  poor 
girl  a  chance  of  getting  her  clothes  together.  You 
can't  order  a  trousseau  now  and  trot  off  to  Cali- 
fornia and  find  it  ready  when  you  come  back 
again." 

"  No,  exactly.     I'll  speak  to  Cynthia  about  it." 


An   Engagement   Ring. 

Accordingly  the  next  morning  he  carried  Cyn- 
thia off  to  the  little  stream  by  the  corner  of  the 
park. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  he  said,  when 
they  were  safely  settled  down  in  their  favorite 
hiding  place.  "Your  mother  is  talking  about 
going  out  to  Santa  Clara  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear  ;  nothing  will  turn  her  from  it," 
Cynthia  replied. 

"  Oh,  is  that  so  ?  Well  now,  look  here.  To 
please  me — to  please  me,"  he  repeated,  looking 
straight  into  his  fiancee's  lovely  eyes — "  to  please 
me,  darling,  will  you  get  her  to  give  it  up  ? " 

"  But  I  want  to  go,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  And  I  don't  want  you  to  go,"  he  said,  in 
masterful  tones. 

"But  why  not?" 

"  Because — well,  you  know  my  old  objections. 
It's  a  beastly  journey  ;  it'll  wear  you  out ;  and  if 
you  go  our  marriage  will  have  to  be  put  off  by  at 
least  three  months." 

"  I  don't  see  why." 

"  Well,  you'll  want  clothes,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  can  order  them  before  1  go." 

"  You  can't  get  your  frocks  fitted  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing  if  you  are  in  California.  I  don't 
know  what  you  women  want,  but  I  know  when 
my  sister  was  married  our  house  became  practically 
a  draper's  shop  for  the  time  being." 


264     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

A  rejoinder  rose  to  the  girl's  lips  that  she  was 
not  one  of  his  sisters,  and  would  not  require  the 
house  in  which  she  might  be  living  to  be  made 
into  a  draper's  shop  before  she  was  going  to  be 
married.  Then  she  suddenly  remembered  that 
she  would  be  marrying  into  exactly  the  same  posi- 
tion as  his  sister,  and  that  whatever  was  necessary 
for  his  sister's  social  status  would  be  necessary  for 
the  social  position  of'Mrs.  Richard  Vincent. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  will  put  off  our  marriage," 
she  said. 

"  I  am  sure  it  will.  Now  we  could  well  go  out 
there  at  some  future  time.  If  I  go  alone  I  can 
scurry  through,  see  to  all  business  arrangements, 
and  be  back  again  in  ever  so  much  less  time  than 
I  can  do  if  I  have  two  ladies  with  me." 

"  I  can't  understand  quite,"  said  Cynthia,  "  why 
you  should  be  so  averse  to  our  going  out  to  Santa 
Clara ;  you  have  always  been  the  same.  Now  if 
my  father  had  lived  you  would  have  used  every 
effort  to  persuade  us  to  go  out  there  permanently." 

"  For  a  very  good  reason,"  replied  Dick.  "  If 
your  father  had  lived  he  would  have  been  at 
Santa  Clara,  making  preparations  for  your  comfort 
while  I  escorted  you  on  the  journey.  He  would 
have  spent  heaps  of  money,  would  have  got  in 
all  sorts  of  things,  and  would  have  made  a  perfect 
bower  of  the  place  for  you  and  your  mother.  As 
it  is,  I  can't  do  a  thing.  I  can't  very  well  send 


An   Engagement   Ring. 

out  to  the  manager  and  say,  *  Refurnish  the  house. 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Meredith  are  coming  out.'  His 
taste  is  not  your  taste  ;  he  is  a  good  sort  in  his 
way,  but  he  has  no  idea  of  what  two  ladies  like 
yourselves  would»want.  Can't  you  see  that  ?  " 
"  Yes,  yes,  I  see  that  plainly  enough." 
"If*  I  could  go  out  there  first,  and  get  every- 
thing ready  for  you  it  wouldn't  be  so  bad  ;  but 
then  that  would  entail  your  coming  out  alone. 
As  your  future  husband,  I  don't  like  it.  Can't 
you  see  my  standpoint  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  see  your  standpoint  right  enough  ; 
there's  no  mistaking  it.  But  I  also  see  mother's 
standpoint ;  and  hers  is  that  she  has  set  her  heart 
upon  going  out  to  see  the  place  where  her  hus- 
band lived — I  was  going  to  say  where  he  died — 
but  that's  another  idea  altogether.  She  has  cer- 
tainly set  her  heart  upon  seeing  Santa  Clara,  and 
I  think,  although  she  hasn't  actually  said  it,  that 
she  has  also  set  her  heart  upon  going  out  to  visit 
my  father's  grave.  My  dear  Dick,  you  don't  un- 
derstand women ;  it's  easy  to  see  that  you've 
never  cared  for  a  woman  before  me.  If  you  had 
done  you  would  know  our  ways  better.  Mother 
is  living  to  go  and  see  that  grave ;  nothing  else 
will  satisfy  her  ;  even  if  it  puts  off  our  marriage  it 
would  be  better  to  put  it  off  a  little  while  and  let 
her  gratify  her  whim — her  caprice,  if  you  like  to 
call  it  so." 


266      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Mine,"  said  Dick,  "  is  neither  a  whim  nor  a 
caprice.  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  your  going  out 
to  that  wild  part  without  any  preparation,  as  if 
you  were  a  mere  nobody,  in  utter  and  entire  dis- 
comfort, as  you  will  do.  Let  us  be  married 
quietly — we  must  be  on  account  of  our  mourning — 
then  let  us  after  a  few  months,  say  in  the  spring, 
take  your  mother  out  with  us." 

"  Well,"  Cynthia,  "  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  to 
persuade  her." 


Her  Own   Way.  267 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

HER    OWN    WAY. 

WHEN  Cynthia  Meredith  broached  the  idea  to 
her  mother  that  her  engagement  would,  for  the 
present,  put  a  stop  to  any  idea  of  their  going  out 
to  Santa  Clara,  that  little  lady  absolutely  shrieked 
in  her  dismay  and  horror. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I've  always  known  that 
young  people  in  love  were  selfish,  but  I  never 
came  across  anything  so  barefacedly  selfish  as  for 
you  and  Dick  to  suggest  that  I  should  give  up 
the  very  desire  of  my  life  just  to  please  his 
vagaries.  You  can  tell  him  that  I  shall  do  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  He  can  please  himself  whether 
he  goes  to  Santa  Clara  or  not — I  am  not  in  any 
way  bound  to  him,  of  course,  and  he  is  not  as  yet 
in  any  way  bound  to  me,  excepting  as  my  pooi 
Roger's  great  friend — but  you  can  make  it  quite 
clear  to  the  young  gentleman  that  I  intend  to 
carry  out  my  original  plan." 

"  He  doesn't  want  you  to  put  it  off  altogether, 
mother  dear." 

"  No,  he  wants  to  get  you  safely  married  first ; 


268      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

and  then  a  dozen  things  might  happen  which 
would  entirely  preclude  the  possibility  of  taking  a 
long  journey  to  a  country  for  which  Dick  himself 
has  no  predilection.  Stay  !  you  had  better  go 
and  send  him  to  me." 

So  Cynthia,  who  was  as  wax  in  the  hands  of 
her  mother,  obediently  went  down-stairs  in  search 
of  Dick. 

"  Dick,"  she  said,  "  my  mother  wants  to  see 
you." 

"  Oh.     About  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  dear,  you  may  as  well  give  up 
hope.  Mother's  mind  is  made  up.  She's  going 
to  Santa  Clara,  even  though  the  whole  world 
should  combine  against  her.  I  believe  if  all  the 
railroads  were  wrecked  and  the  great  lakes  over- 
flowed themselves  and  made  an  inland  sea  between 
New  York  and  Santa  Clara,  mother  would  get  to 
the  other  side  somehow." 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  asked  Dick. 

"  She's  in   the   boudoir  next  to  her  bedroom." 

"  Good.     I'll  go  up." 

Dick  did  go  up.  Mrs.  Meredith  received  him 
with  a  radiant  smile.  "  I  know  all  you  are  going 
to  say,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "  but  it  isn't  a  bit 
of  use.  I  know  you  are  so  much  in  love  with 
Cynthia  that  you  consider  her  little  mother  a  brute 
to  want  her  to  take  a  somewhat  out-of-the-way 
journey  ;  but  I  was  as  much  in  love  with  my 


Her  Own  Way. 

Roger  as  you  are  with  Cynthia.  You'll  have 
your  good  time — all  chance  of  mine  has  gone  by 
forever." 

Dick  gave  in  at  once.  "  Very  well,  Mrs. 
Meredith,"  he  said,  "if  you  feel  like  that,  of 
course  it's  useless  for  me  to  say  anything.  I  con- 
fess I  was  thinking  of  your  comfort  and  Cynthia's 
before  anything  else — believe  me  as  to  that." 

"  Oh,  I  believe  you,  dear  boy  ;  I  believe  you 
perfectly  ;  but  life  is  not  entirely  a  question  of 
comfort.  I  can  promise  you  one  thing,"  she  went 
on,  "  I  quite  see,  now  that  I  have  seen  this  charm- 
ing place  of  yours,  that  your  Californian  property 
can  never  be  more  than  a  mere  source  of  income 
to  you,  and  when  I  have  been  out  and  seen  the 
place,  I  am  quite  willing  to  abide  by  your  advice 
as  to  what  I  shall  do  with  it.  Surely,  too,  it  will 
simplify  matters  for  Roger's  will  if  I  am  on  the 
spot." 

"  Possibly  it  may  do  so.  We  won't  say  any- 
thing more  about  it,  Mrs.  Meredith.  And  I  take 
it  that  you  and  Cynthia  will  be  ready  to  start 
with  me  on  the  tenth  of  next  month  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

When  Dick  left  Mrs.  Meredith's  presence  he 
went  in  search  of  Cynthia. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  it's  no  use,"  he  replied.  "  Your  mother 
has  set  her  heart  upon  going,  and  perhaps,  after 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

all,  it's  just  as  well  that  she  should  do  as  she 
pleases.  Certainly,  when  she  has  once  seen  the 
place,  she  will  have  no  desire  to  stay  longer,  or 
ever  to  go  again." 

"  And  yet  you  stayed  there  seven  years." 

"  For  one  thing,"  he  replied,  "  I  went  there 
in  bad  health — at  least,  if  not  bad  health,  I  could- 
n't stand  an  English  winter.  And  then  I  put  my 
teeth  into  the  ranche  and  wanted  to  make  it  pay. 
It  did  pay  before  we  struck  oil,  but  even  then  it 
wasn't  much  to  boast  about.  You  know  that  we 
start  on  the  tenth  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  fortnight  to-morrow,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  Yes.  I  have  told  your  mother  that  it  would 
be  absurd  for  you  to  go  back  to  Brighton.  You 
may  as  well  put  in  the  fortnight  here." 

"  What  does  your  mother  say  ? "  asked 
Cynthia. 

"  My  mother  ?  Oh,  we'll  go  and  talk  to  her 
about  it  presently.  I  suppose  there'll  be  certain 
things  that  you'll  want  for  traveling  and  for 
winter  use,  and  you  can  as  easily  go  to  London 
from  here  as  you  can  from  Brighton." 

Cynthia  looked  at  him  searchingly  as  he  sat  in 
the  autumn  sunlight.  "  Dick,"  she  said,  going 
closer  to  him,  "  are  you  very  much  upset  that 
mother  won't  give  way  ?  " 

"  No,  I  wish  she  had,  for  her  sake  and  your 
own ;  but  since  she  is  bent  upon  it,  it  is  better 


that  she  should  see  for  herself  how  right  I  am. 
Ever  since  she  first  proposed  going  out  I  have 
had  a  sort  of  instinct  that  not  exactly  harm  would 
come  of  the  journey,  but  it  would  be  best  that  she 
did  not  make  it.  However,  I  have  done  my  best 
to  dissuade  her,  and  I  have  not  succeeded.  So 
the  only  thing  now  is  to  let  it  go  on." 

"  I  wish  mother  had  given  in,"  said  she,  wist- 
fully. "  You  know  that  I  would  have  done  so, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  had  already  done  so." 

"  I  don't  think,  Dick,  that  I  shall  ever  want  to 
go  dead  against  you." 

"  I  hope  not.  There  is  no  reason  why  either 
of  us  should  want  to  go  one  against  the  other." 

"  I  feel,"  said  she,  "  as  if  yqur  mother  will 
think  us  a  perfect  infliction." 

"  Don't  feel  that  my  mother  thinks  anything 
of  the  kind.  She  isn't  a  selfish  woman  at  any 
time,  and  with  regard  to  you  and  me,  she  has 
only  a  wish  for  my  happiness ;  that  counts  with 
her  first  and  foremost.  Don't  worry  yourself 
about  my  mother,  or  think  that  you  have  worn 
out  your  welcome  in  these  few  days.  Why, 
that  would  be  a  bad  beginning.  You  are  going 
to  live  all  the  rest  of  your  life  in  this  old  house  ; 
a  few  days  more  or  less  will  make  no  difference 
to  my  mother." 

"  She  is  very  sweet  and  kind,"  said  Cynthia, 


A  Matter  ot  Sentiment. 

in  a  trembling  voice.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  had  come 
along  and  taken  her  one  ewe  lamb  from  her." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  nonsense  !  The  one  ewe  lamb 
is  on  your  side  of  the  bargain.  I  might  feel  that, 
but  I  don't.  I  am  going  to  make  you  a  just  per- 
fect husband,  and  you  are  going  to  make  me  a 
quite  perfect  wife  ;  and  so  our  mothers  will  be 
happy — or  ought  to  be;  in  knowing  so  much." 

An  hour  later  Dick  knocked  at  his  mother's 
bedroom  door.  "  Are  you  there  ?  Can  I  come 
in  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  certainly,  dear.  Come  in.  I  was  just 
resting  for  half-an-hour,"  she  replied. 

"It's  a  shame  to  disturb  you,  mother,  but  I 
wanted  to  have  ten  minutes'  quiet  talk  with  you. 
You  know  that  Mrs.  Meredith  and  Cynthia  pro- 
pose going  out  to  Santa  Clara  with  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  told  me." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  want  them  to  go,  and  I  want 
them  to  go  even  less  now  that  I  am  engaged  to 
Cynthia." 

"  Well  ?  "     Her  tone  was  quite  short. 

"  Well,  it  seems — I  have  been  talking  about 
it  to  Cynthia  to-day.  She  is  quite  willing  to 
forego  her  wish  and  to  go  out  with  me  later  on." 

"Yes?" 

"  But  her  mother  has  set  her  very  heart  upon 
it.  Nothing  will  induce  her  to  change  her  plans." 

"  I  suppose  (it  is  natural,"   said    Mrs.  Vincent, 


Her  Own  Way.  273 

"but  I  confess  I  should  have  thought  more  of 
her  if  she  had  given  in  to  your  wishes." 

"  And  so  should  I,"  said  Dick.  "  But  she 
doesn't  seem  to  look  at  it  in  that  light  at  all ;  and 
so  I  have  withdrawn  my  objection,  and  they  will 
go  with  me  on  the  tenth  of  next  month." 

"  They  will  go  with  you  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  I  see." 

"  Well,  naturally,  there  is  no  need  for  them  to 
hurry  away  to-morrow." 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world.  I  hope  they  are 
not  thinking  that  I  am  wanting  to  get  rid  of 
them." 

"  I  don't  think  they've  thought  about  it  yet. 
I  told  Cynthia  I  knew  that  they  wouldn't  be  in 
your  way,  but  will  you  say  as  much  to-night  to 
Mrs.  Meredith  ?  " 

"  I  will,  dear  boy,  certainly." 

"  You  had  better  not  say  anything  about  her 
having  gone  against  my  wishes  in  doing  it.  You 
see,  I  understand  to  a  certain  extent  what  she 
feels,  poor  little  woman.  She  was  parted  from 
Meredith  all  those  years,  and  I  think  she  feels  as 
if  by  going  out  to  see  the  place  where  he  lived 
for  the  last  seven  years  of  his  life,  she  will  bring 
herself  nearer  to  him." 

"  I  shouldn't  dream  of  interfering  in  Mrs. 
Meredith's  business,  Dick,"  said  his  mother,  with 
18 


274       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

dignity.  "  I  shouldn't  expect  her  to  interfere  in 
mine.  I  think  she  is  rather  mistaken,  because  it 
is  a  very  long  and  weary  journey  ;  but  in  any 
case  it  lies  between  her  and  you,  and  has  nothing 
to  do  with  me.  I  detest  interfering  in  other  peo- 
ple's business,  and  after  all,  poor  little  woman, 
it's  a  natural  thing  that  she  should  want  to 
see  the  house  that  was  her  husband's  home  so 
long.  Dick,  did  he  really  care  for  her,  do  you 
think  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  undoubtedly." 

"  But  what  an  odd  way  he  had  of  showing  it. 
That  way  wouldn't  have  done  for  me,  Dick, 
Fancy  your  father — your  dear  father — staying 
away  from  me  for  fifteen  whole  years." 

"  I  couldn!t  fancy  it,"  said  Dick.  "  That  was 
one  reason  why  I  always  felt  so  horribly  sorry  for 
her,  because  I  couldn't  fancy  it.  Why,  the  dad 
would  have  died  without  you." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent  with  a  sigh.  "  he 
might  have  lived,  dear,  but  not  the  kind  of  life 
that  would  have  satisfied  him.  So  you  will  always 
have  to  be  a  little  lenient  to  your  mother-in-law, 
dear  boy,  because  she  has  missed  so  much." 

"  She  is  determined  that  she  will  miss  nothing 
now,"  said  Dick,  with  a  short  laugh.  "  How- 
ever, that's  neither  here  nor  there.  If  you  will 
ask  them  to  make  this  their  headquarters  until  we 
go,  or  during  most  of  the  time  until  we  go,  I  shall 


Her  Own   Way. 

take  it  as  a  great  kindness  both  to  them  and  to 
me." 

"  That  I  certainly  will.  And  tell  me,  dear — 
when  do  you  think  your  wedding  will  come  off?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  some  time  in  the  New  Year — 
when  we  are  back." 

"  Why  don't  you  be  married  quietly  in  London 
before  you  go  ?  Wouldn't  it  make  things  much 
easier  ?  " 

"  Perhaps.  But  I  don't  feel — No,  it  wouldn't 
do.  I'd  rather  not." 

"Oh,  very  well,  dearest  boy.  Of  course,  just 
as  you  like.  I  wouldn't  interfere  for  the  world. 
Trust  me,  I'll  make  it  all  right  with  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith. And  now  you  ought  to  go  and  dress  for 
dinner." 

Dick  went  off  to  his  own  room  then.  He  pic- 
tured over  all  that  had  happened  during  the  pre- 
vious few  hours  whilst  he  was  changing  his  clothes. 
So  in  spite  of  him,  in  spite  of  all  his  good  resolu- 
tions, in  spite  of  all  his  determination  that  he 
would  resolutely  refrain  from  saying  the  words 
which  would  tell  Cynthia  the  true  state  of  his 
feelings,  he  was  engaged  to  her.  It  had  come 
about  so  simply  and  so  naturally  that  he  could 
not  feel  any  mere  surprise.  It  seemed  to  him  as 
if  he  had  always  been  her  lover ;  as  if  they  had 
been  together  from  the  beginning  of  the  ages  ;  and 
yet  it  was  but  a  few  hours  since  she  had  made  a 


276      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

delicious  mistake  which  had  given  her  to  him  for 
all  time. 

Of  course  his  mother,  so  sensible,  so  affection- 
ate, so  unselfish,  had  put  her  finger  gently  on  the 
crucial  spot  of  the  entire  situation.  She  had 
asked  why  he  did  not  be  married  quietly  before 
they  left  England  ?  So  he  would  have  been — at 
least,  so  he  would  have  tried  to  be — and  he  did 
not  feel  that  either  Cynthia  or  her  mother  would 
have  gainsayed  him — had  it  not  been  for  that  grim 
secret  of  his  which  he  must  bottle  up  in  his  own 
soul  now  and  forever.  They  say  that  down  in 
the  bottom  of  every  heart  still  lingers  some  rem- 
nant of  the  original  fetish  worship  to  which  we 
were  all  once  addicted.  Well,  there  was  a  little 
fetish  set  up  in  Dick  Vincent's  heart,  which  told 
him  that  although  he  could  easily  persuade  Cyn- 
thia to  become  his  wife,  immediately  if  he  wished, 
he  would  not  be  doing  quite  honestly  by  her  if 
he  availed  himself  of  that  power. 

But  supposing  that  the  journey  to  and  from 
Santa  Clara  and  the  sojourn  there  were  accom- 
plished without  any  disclosures  being  made,  he 
felt  he  might  take  it  as  an  omen  empowering  him 
to  go  straight  forward.  He  was  not  especially 
afraid  of  the  journey  either  to  Santa  Clara  or  home 
again  ;  nor  was  he  in  the  least  nervous  about  the 
time  that  they  would  stay  at  Santa  Clara  itself — 
although  the  ladies  would,  he  knew,  suffer  a  good 


Her  Own  Way.  277 

deal  of  inconvenience.  Still,  he  would  write  to 
Jack  Frogg — no,  he  would  telegraph  to  him  at 
once,  now  that  it  was  finally  settled  that  they  were 
to  go,  and  would  give  him  instructions  to  buy, 
beg,  borrow  or  steal  a  sufficient  number  of  things 
to  make  the  interior  of  the  house  cosy  and  pre- 
sentable. 

That  was  all  easy  enough.  What  he  was  really 
afraid  of  was  that  Meredith's  widow  might  insist 
upon  going  down  to  Midas  Creek  in  order  to  see 
Meredith's  grave  and  to  have  a  talk  with  the  land- 
lord of  the  hotel  in  which  he  had  died.  If  that 
should  come  about,  Dick  would,  he  knew,  be  cor- 
nered, and  Cynthia  or  no  Cynthia,  he  would  have 
little  choice  but  to  tell  Mrs.  Meredith  the  exact 
truth,  and  explain  to  her  all  that  he  had  so  care- 
fully been  keeping  back,  both  for  her  sake  and  his 
own.  Because  he  could  not  possibly  let  a  lady, 
still  less  a  pretty  woman,  go  down  from  Santa 
Clara  to  Midas  Creek  by  herself;  and  were  he 
to  go  himself  as  her  escort,  he  would,  to  put  it 
in  his  own  language,  "  immediately  give  the  show 
away."  The  question  was — Would  she  forego 
the  visit  to  Meredith's  grave  or  not  ? 


A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 
CHAPTER  XXV. 

ACROSS  THE  OCEAN. 

HAVING  once  made  up  his  mind  that  Mrs. 
Meredith  was  not  to  be  turned  from  making  the 
journey  to  Santa  Clara,  Dick  Vincent  resigned 
himself  to  the  inevitable  and  discussed  the  various 
arrangements  therefor  with  as  little  show  of  an- 
noyance as  if  the  idea  of  their  accompanying  him 
had  been  his  own. 

"  I  very  much  envy  them  their  trip,"  said  Mrs. 
Vincent  the  evening  before  they  left  Hollingridge. 
"  I  should  greatly  like  to  see  an  oil  well  myself." 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  Dick  promptly,  "  you 
will,  if  you  please,  have  to  do  without  seeing  this 
oil  well.  I  can't  help  Mrs.  Meredith  going,  al- 
though I'd  give  five  hundred  pounds  this  minute 
if  she'd  forego  the  pleasure.  It's  bad  enough  to 
have  to  take  her — to  know  that  she's  going  into 
the  most  extreme  discomfort — that  she  will  be 
hideously  disappointed,  and  that  anything  may 
happen.  I  couldn't  face  taking  another  lady,  es- 
pecially one  as  little  accustomed  to  roughing  it  as 
you  are.  Mrs.  Meredith  has  had  a  very  different 
life  to  yours,  you  know,  dear." 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear  boy.     I  confess  I  should  like 


Across  the  Ocean. 

to  go,  but  I  know  better  than  to  set  my  heart  upon 
it,  or  any  nonsense  of  that  kind.  And  then,  of 
course,  my  reason  would  be  one  of  pure  curiosity  ; 
hers  is  one  of  sentiment — which  is  quite  a  differ- 
ent thing." 

"  Yes.  It  makes  one  almost  wish  that  there 
wasn't  such  a  thing  as  sentiment,"  said  Dick, 
rather  savagely. 

He  felt  when  he  got  safely  into  his  own  bed- 
room that  he  had  done  well  to,  as  he  put  it, 
"choke  his  mother  off  straight."  "  If  I  had  let 
them  get  talking  about  it,"  his  thoughts  ran, 
"  and  the  mater  had  made  up  her  mind  to  see 
Santa  Clara,  I  should  have  had  a  pretty  kettle  of 
fish.  '  Pon  my  soul,  I  begin  to  think  there's 
nothing  like  being  firm  with  a  woman.  I  believe 
if  I  had  been  firm  with  Mrs.  Meredith,  she 
would  never  have  insisted  upon  undertaking  this 
ridiculous  journey.  However,  if  it  was  my  fault 
through  over-lenience,  I've  got  to  pay  the 
penalty." 

By  the  time  that  they  left  London  and  em- 
barked on  the  great  liner  at  Liverpool,  Dick  had 
grown  so  accustomed  to  the  idea  of  Meredith's 
wife  and  daughter  going  to  Santa  Clara  that  he 
suffered  no  uneasiness,  excepting  when  he  thought 
of  the  possible  visit  to  Midas  Creek.  Familiarity 
with  danger  breeds  contempt ;  and  so  it  did  in 
this  case.  .Mrs.  Meredith,  much  to  her  own 


28o     A   Matter   of  Sentiment. 

disgust  and  not  a  little  to  Cynthia's  dismay, 
proved  to  be  an  exceptionally  bad  sailor.  Be- 
tween Liverpool  and  New  York  Dick  did  not  so 
much  as  set  eyes  upon  her.  He  heard  from 
Cynthia  that  her  mother  had  quite  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  would  never  cross  the  Atlantic 
again  when  once  she  found  herself  in  Old  Eng- 
land. "In  fact,"  she  told  him,  "  I  feel  perfectly 
certain  that  if  my  father  had  lived,  mother  would 
have  settled  herself  down  in  California  and 
would  never  have  gone  back  to  England  at  all." 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  said  Dick,  "  but  I 
hope  she  won't  take  it  into  her  head  that  it  is  a 
little  earthly  paradise  and  that  old  England  is  a 
played-out  concern,  because  if  she  does  I  shall 
quarrel  with  her — which  I  have  no  earthly  wish 
to  do." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  mother  knows  that  you  have 
a  stake  in  the  country.  It's  quite  a  different 
situation  now,"  Cynthia  exclaimed,  "  to  what  it 
was  when  poor  dear  father  was  living.  Why, 
Dick.,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish?  Mother  said 
if  father  had  lived — if  father  had  lived  and  you 
had  chosen  to  marry  me  just  the  same,  which," 
looking  up  at  him  coquettishly,  "  I  suppose  you 
would  have  done,  it  wouldn't  have  mattered  in  the 
least  to  you  whether  they  chose  to  go  on  living  in 
California,  or  whether  they  cared  to  go  back  to 
England  and  settle." 


Across  the  Ocean.  *%l 

"No,  no,  of  course  not.  I  fully  agree  to 
that." 

"Well,  mother  said,  f  if.' " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  quite  understand  ;  yes,  yes — if. 
But,  of  course,  poor  chap,  he  isn't  living ;  and  so 
that's  just  the  difference,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  was  what  mother  said.  You  are  so 
unreasonable,  Dick." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  be  unreasonable,"  said  Dick, 
with  a  pretty  air  of  begging  for  forgiveness. 
"  Why  should  I  be  ?  Only  it's  rather  appalling, 
when  one  has  brought  a  lady  over  here  against 
one's  will,  to  have  even  the  possibility  suggested 
that  perhaps  she'll  never  want  to  go  back  again." 

"  Oh,  trust  to  your  luck  in  that,"  cried  Cyn- 
thia. "  Mother  will  never  want  to  come  out  here 
again.  She  wishes  fervently  that  she  had  never 
come.  She  says  she  believes  evil  will  come  of  it." 

"  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised,"  said  Dick, 
gloomily. 

"  Oh,  wouldn't  you  ?  Do  you  think  that  it  is 
possible  you  may  see  somebody  else  you  like 
better  than  me  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  silly.  How  could 
I  see  anybody  that  I  liked  better  than  you  ? 
Haven't  I  been  seven  years  in  America  ?  Did  I 
ever  see  anybody  I  liked  better  than  you  ?  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  talk  such  arrant  nonsense." 

"  I'll   try  not   to  talk  arrant  nonsense,"  said 


282      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

Cynthia.  "  You  don't  know  very  much  about 
women,  Dick.  You  don't  realize  that  when  a 
woman  is  utterly  and  entirely  and  altogether 
happy,  it  seems  to  be  part  of  her  nature  to  talk 
arrant  nonsense.  I  assure  you,  Dick,  I  never 
wanted  to  talk  nonsense  before.  The  people  at 
Gatehouses  regarded  me  as  a  most  sensible  young 
woman  without  a  jot  of  silliness  about  me.  It 
is  you  who  have  made  me  silly,  believe  me  it  is." 

Mrs.  Meredith  did  not  come  upon  deck  until 
they  were  within  sight  of  New  York,  and  then 
Dick  was  horrified  to  see  the  ravages  which  the 
voyage  had  made  in  her.  She  looked  quite  old, 
and  very  frail  and  transparent. 

"  You  see  I  ought  not  to  have  come,"  was  her 
greeting  to  him  as  he  rushed  forward  and  offered 
her  his  arm  that  he  might  steady  her  tottering 
steps  across  the  deck. 

"  Well,  I  confess  I  didn't  want  you  to  come," 
he  said  very  kindly,  "  but  I  never  thought  of 
this.  So  many  people  who  are  bad  sailors  in  the 
Channel,  think  nothing  of  a  trip  across  the 
Atlantic." 

"  I  had  always  called  myself  a  good  sailor,"  she 
said.  "  I  wonder  whether  one  could  put  one's 
self  to  sleep — to  get  back  again." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  wouldn't  be  quite  safe." 

"  If  one  took  a  sleeping  draught  every  three 
hpurs  it  ought  to  keep  one  going." 


Across  the  Ocean. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  try  it." 

"  Oh,  I'll  do  nothing  foolish,"  she  said.  "  But 
I  have  felt  the  heat  so  much  this  summer,  very 
much." 

"  That  was  because  you  would  go  to  Brighton," 
said  Dick,  gently. 

"  Yes,  the  heat  at  Brighton  was  absolutely  in- 
supportable. If  your  mother  had  not  invited  us 
to  Hollingridge,  I  believe  we  could  not  have 
stayed  our  time  out.  I  have  always  suffered  more 
or  less  from  heat,  but  never  so  much  as  now ; 
and  coming  on  the  top  of  that,  this  dreadful  voy- 
age has  almost  finished  me." 

"  We  ought  to  stay  a  few  days  in  New  York 
for  you  to  recruit." 

"  I  should  like  to  do  so  if  you  don't  mind," 
said  Mrs.  Meredith,  quite  appealingly.  "  I  sup- 
pose it  is  an  interesting  city  enough  ?  " 

Dick  laughed  aloud.  "  Oh,  yes  ;  you  can  well 
put  in  a  few  weeks  in  New  York  if  you  wish  to  do 
so,  provided  it  is  not  too  hot,  which  it  should  not 
be  at  this  time  of  the  year.  Sometimes  they  get 
a  spell  of  Indian  summer — which  is  very  trying." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith.  "  I  be- 
lieve I  shall  die  if  there  is  anything  like  a  wave 
of  heat." 

"In  that  case  we  mustn't  stop  in  New  York. 
We  must  get  you  down  to  Long  Island,  or  some- 
where where  you  can  breathe.  Then  you'll  find 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

it  cold  enough  afterwards,  cold  enough  to  freeze 
the  very  marrow  in  your  bones." 

He  felt  genuinely  sorry  for  the  little  woman. 
She  seemed  so  frail  and  so  dependent ;  and  she 
so  genuinely  repented  of  having  gone  against  his 
wishes  in  taking  the  journey  at  all.  Dick  could 
be  very  generous,  and  he  was  just  as  kind  and 
considerate  then  to  Mrs.  Meredith  as  he  would 
have  been  had  she  made  the  journey  entirely  to 
please  him. 

In  due  course  they  landed,  and  thankfully 
shook  themselves  free  of  the  big  ship  ;  at  least, 
Mrs.  Meredith  certainly  did.  She  could  not  re- 
press a  shudder  as  she  stepped  across  the  gang- 
way. It  was  a  shudder  of  disgust  to  think  that 
before  she  could  reach  her  native  country  again 
she  must  spend  seven  more  cruel  days  on  that  or 
some  other  vessel.  "  Then,"  her  thoughts  ran, 
"  old  England  shall  be  good  enough  for  me.  I 
wouldn't  like  to  tell  Dick  so,  not  for  the  world  ; 
but  oh  !  how  flattered  he  or  any  other  man  would 
be  if  he  knew  how  often  and  how  bitterly  I  have 
repented  of  ever  leaving  my  native  shores." 

She  would  have  been  considerably  surprised  if 
she  could  have  known  how  thoroughly  Dick 
realized  her  exact  feelings. 

New  York  proved  itself  a  veritable  city  of  de- 
lights. Its  restless  stream  of  life,  its  extraord- 
inary vitality,  all  appealed  to  the  little  woman  who 


Across  the  Ocean.  285 

had  for  years  been  living  a  life  of  hated  stagna- 
tion. Nobody  but  herself  knew,  not  even  Cyn- 
thia, how  she  had  loathed  her  surroundings  in 
Gatehouses,  how  she  had  raged  within  herself  at 
the  kindly  and  perhaps  a  little  patronizing  visits 
of  the  vicar,  how  she  had  fumed  over  the  more 
ceremonious  calls  of  his  less  tactful  wife,  how  she 
had  longed  and  prayed  that  Roger  might  one  day 
come  back  again  and  enable  her  to  let  these  peo- 
ple see  that,  after  all,  she  was  perhaps  even  better 
than  their  equal.  And  then,  as  soon  as  the  news 
came  that  she  was  comparatively  rich,  her  instinct 
had  been  to  get  out  of  Gatehouses  at  once  ;  she 
had  no  longer  any  desire  to  shine  among  those 
who  had  been  witnesses  of  her  past  humiliations. 
She  did  not  want  her  daughter  to  pose  as  an 
heiress  before  those  who  had,  not  unnaturally,  re- 
garded her  as  a  "young  person."  So  the  viva- 
cious, restless  life  of  New  York  fascinated  her  be- 
yond what  any  words  of  mine  will  express,  and  in 
order  the  more  thoroughly  to  observe  it,  she  set 
herself  industriously  to  do  the  city  and  its  en- 
virons. 

It  was  hot  for  the  time  of  year,  but  not  extraor- 
dinarily so,  and  therefore  Mrs.  Meredith  was 
enabled  to  gratify  her  love  of  sight-seeing  to  the 
very  full.  Dick  was  appalled  at  the  energy  with 
which  she  attacked  her  task,  and  the  interest  with 
which  she  carried  it  through. 


286      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  your  mother  would  be  like 
this,"  he  said  one  afternoon  to  Cynthia,  when 
Mrs.  Meredith  had  at  last  acknowledged  that  she 
was  feeling  a  little  tired,  "  but  why  waste  it  on 
New  York  ?  If  she  had  gone  to  Paris,  or 
Dresden,  or  Munich,  or  to  Italy,  I  could  have 
understood  her  enthusiasm ;  but  I  can't  under- 
stand anybody  enthusing  about  anything  in  Am- 
erica." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  America  is  not  a  place  to  enthuse 
over.  Barring  the  Falls,  which  can  be  done  in  a 
few  hours,  it  is  a  place  to  pass  through — a  place 
to  do  business  in,  a  place  to  seek  your  fortune 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  not  no  enthuse 
over." 

"  Oh,  well,"  Cynthia  cried,  "  mother  knows 
that  she  will  never  come  back  here  again,  and  so 
she  wants  to  see  all  there  is  to  be  seen  while  she's 
about  it." 

"  That's  right  enough,  but  if  she  goes  on  like 
this  she'll  knock  herself  up  properly.  She  ought 
to  have  stayed  here  quietly  and  rested;  eaten  her 
meals  regularly,  taken  a  drive  every  morning  and 
afternoon,  and  then  have  gone  leisurely  on  and 
have  saved  up  all  sight-seeing  until  she  was  on 
the  way  home." 

"  Oh,  well,  you  must  let  mother  go  her  own 
way.  I  am  content  to  be  guided  by  you,  but 


Across  the  Ocean.  287 

mother  must  go  her  own  way.  Sight-seeing 
pleases  her,  therefore  let  her  see  sights.  And 
mind,  to-night  she  is  not  going  out ;  we  are  none 
of  us  going  out ;  we  are  going  to  do  nothing 
more  exciting  than  perhaps  take  a  ride  on  that 
elevated  railway." 

Dick  fairly  groaned.  "  Not  for  a  pleasure 
trip  ?  Oh,  my  dear  child,  do  you  know  what  I 
wish  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  I  wish  that  your  mother  had  belonged 
to  a  peripatetic  circus — a  sort  of  tent  arrange- 
ment that  sets  itself  up  every  three  days  and  then, 
having  exhausted  the  money  of  that  pitch,  goes 
along  to  another  pitch.  Then  if  money  had 
come  to  her,  she  would  have  been  content  to  sit 
still  and  enjoy  it." 

Cynthia  looked  at  him  with  a  world  of  fun 
shining  out  of  her  soft  eyes.  "  I  believe  they 
call  that  a  f  fit-up  show,'  don't  they  ?  Fancy 
mother  in  a  fit-up  show.  It's  too  funny  ! 
Well,  Dick,  dearest,  I  am  really  sorry  that  my 
mother  is  not  more  domesticated  than  she  is,  not 
more  like  your  own,  that  you  can  keep  in  proper 
order,  but  as  she  is,  so  you  must  take  her  or 
leave  her.  1  am  afraid  that  she's  going  to  make 
the  most  of  this  trip,  because  she  feels  perfectly 
sure  that  she'll  never  take  another ;  at  least  not 
one  that  entails  a  seven  days'  sea  journey." 


288      A   Matter  of  Sentiment 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A    NEW    IDEA. 

"  I  THINK,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith  one  evening 
at  dinner,  "  that  we  have  about  done  New  York." 

"  I  should  think  you  had,"  said  Dick,  with  a 
grim  smile.  "  And  you  may  think  yourself  very 
lucky  that  New  York  has  not  done  you." 

"How  done  me?  I  don't  understand  you, 
Dick." 

"  Well,  that  this  fearful  heat  has  not  com- 
pletely knocked  you  up.  Considering  all  that 
you  have  done  and  seen,  the  little  care  you  have 
taken  of  yourself,  the  excited  state  in  which  you 
arrived,  and  the  amount  of  hard  labor  that  you 
have  put  in  since  you  have  been  here,  I  can  only 
say  that  you  must  have  a  constitution  of  iron." 

"  I  have  an  excellent  constitution,"  said  Mrs. 
Meredith,  who,  if  she  perceived  the  sarcasm  did 
not  think  it  worth  while  to  notice  it,  "  far  better 
than  ever  my  daughter  will  have,  so  you  may 
make  up  your  mind  to  that." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Dick's  tongue  to  rejoin 
"  I  hope  so,"  but  he  nipped  it  off  just  in  time, 
and  dropped  a  piece  of  bread  in  his  mouth  to 
serve  as  an  excuse  for  having  opened  it. 


A  New   Idea. 

"  I  must  say,"  Mrs.  Meredith  went  on,  "  that 
I  have  enjoyed  my  stay  in  New  York  very  much. 
It's  a  fine  city;  there's  a  sense  of  life  about  it. 
I  don't  know,  if  I  were  not,  so  to  speak,  tied  else- 
where through  you  two,  that  I  wouldn't  sooner 

live  here  than  in  any  other  city  I  have  ever  been 

•     » 

m. 

"  I  can't  understand  your  taste,"  said  Dick. 
"  I  think  New  York  perfectly  horrid  myself. 
However,  these  things  are  all  a  matter  of  opinion  ; 
but  since  you  have  done  New  York,  Mrs.  Mer- 
edith, without  New  York  having  especially  done 
you,  I  suppose  you  will  be  moving  on  soon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  there  is  nothing  left  to  stay  for 
now,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  quite  seriously.  "  We 
might  go  on  to-morrow.  What  do  you  think, 
Cynthia  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Do  let  us  get  out  of  this  horrid 
heat,"  cried  Cynthia 

Something  in  her  voice  made  Dick  turn  and 
look  at  her.  "  Do  you  feel  ill,  dearest  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  No,  Dick,  but  I  don't  feel  well.  I  never 
could  stand  dreadful  heat,  and  it  has  been  very 
oppressive  to-day.  Do  you  know,  I  think  I 
shall  go  to  bed  directly  after  dinner.  If  you  two 
want  to  explore  the  elevated  railway,  you  can  ex- 
plore it  without  me." 

"  Don't  you  think,  Mrs.  Meredith,"  said  Dick, 
19 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  that  it  would  be  as  well  to  leave  one  world  to 
conquer  ?  " 

"  How  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  are  coming  back  by  way  of  New 
York.  How  would  it  do  to  leave  the  elevated 
railway  till  we  are  coming  home,  and  spend  one 
evening  resting  ourselves  ?  " 

"  Yes,  1  don't  mind,"  she  said. 

"  But  I  shall  go  to  bed  all  the  same,"  an- 
nounced Cynthia,  "  because  my  wretched  head  is 
getting  worse  every  minute." 

Dick  looked  at  her  again  very  anxiously.  "  I 
hope  you  are  not  going  to  be  ill  ?  "  he  murmured 
under  his  breath. 

"  No,  no,  no  ;  only  a  headache.  Too  much 
sight-seeing — too  much  done-up-ness.  I  am  not 
strong  like  mother." 

"  Thank  God  for  that !  "  was  Dick's  fervent 
inward  comment. 

"  Then  we'll  go  on  to-morrow,  Dick,"  said 
Mrs.  Meredith. 

"  Very  well,  I'll  find  out  about  the  trains  pres- 
ently." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  "  that  we 
can  get  everything  on  the  cars  for  whiling  away 
the  tedium  of  the  journey  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  as  much  as  the  tedium  of  such  a 
long  journey  can  be  whiled  away,"  Dick  replied. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  tedious." 


A   New   Idea. 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  tedious  ;  at  least,  I  found  it 
so,"  said  Dick. 

"  And  what  day  do  we  arrive  at  Midas  Creek  ?  " 

"  Midas  Creek  !  "  exclaimed  Dick. 

"  Yes,  of  course.     We   are  going  there  first." 

"  Going  to  Midas  Creek  first  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  That's  the  main  reason  why  I 
have  come." 

"  Oh." 

He  happened  in  his  consternation  to  glance  at 
Cynthia,  who  looked  so  white  and  so  suffering 
that  he  proposed,  without  further  continuing  the 
conversation,  that  they  should  leave  the  table. 

"  The  sooner  you  are  in  bed,  Cynthia,"  he  said, 
"  the  better." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  I  feel  awfully  played  out  to- 
night. You  and  the  mother  can  settle  about  the 
journey,"  she  said,  as  they  passed  down  the 
room. 

"  I'll  go  up  and  see  you  safe  into  bed,  darling," 
said  Mrs.  Meredith. 

"  And  I  will  go  and  have  a  cigarette,"  said 
Dick. 

He  left  them  at  the  elevator,  and  turning  went 
into  the  smoking  divan,  where  he  sat  down  and 
tried  to  think  over  the  appalling  suggestion  which 
Mrs.  Meredith  had  just  made  to  him.  He  no 
longer  wondered,  fond  as  he  had  been  of  her,  that 
Meredith  had  left  her, 


A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  It  looks  such  a  velvet  glove,"  his  thoughts 
ran,  "  but  what  a  hand  of  steel — cold  steel,  chilled 
steel — with  velvet  covers.  She's  made  up  her 
mind  to  go  to  Midas  Creek  to  worry  everything 
out — to  make  a  holy  show  of  herself  there.  Oh, 

it  all,  I  must  stop  it  somehow  !  I  must 

manage  somehow  to  make  her  go  to  the  ranche 
first.  She'll  be  pretty  sickened  by  the  rough  time 
there  ;  and  then  I'll  take  her  down  to  Freeman's 
Rock,  and  when  she  has  been  the  charms  of  that 
place  she  perhaps  won't  be  so  keen  on  taking 
Cynthia  to  a  place  which  everybody  will  tell  her 
is  simply  ten  times  as  rough.  At  all  events,  if 
she  goes  to  Midas  Creek,  she  must  go  without 
Cynthia.  Her  father's  grave  is  nothing  to  her, 
and  I  strongly  object  to  my  wife,  until  she  is  my 
wife,  visiting  any  such  part  of  the  world.  And 
then,"  he  added,  with  a  resolute  expression  cross- 
ing his  face,  "  once  she  is  my  wife,  I'll  take  care 
to  keep  her  out  of  that  kind  of  thing." 

He  finished  the  cigarette  and  then  went  up  to 
the  sitting-room  which  was  attached  to  Mrs. 
Meredith's  suite.  He  sat  there  alone  for  a  few 
minutes  before  she  entered  from  the  bedroom. 

"  Oh,  you  are  here,"  she  said.  "  I  am  sure 
that  poor  child  will  be  all  right  when  she  has  had 
a  night's  rest.  She  has  done  a  little  too  much." 

"  A  great  deal  too  much,  Mrs.  Meredith,"  said 
Dick. 


A   New   Idea.  293 

"  This  heat  is  so  very  trying,"  she  remarked. 

"  Yes,  it  is."  Then  he  got  up  and  went  and 
sat  down  opposite  to  her.  "  Mrs.  Meredith,  I 
want  you  to  do  me  a  favor." 

"  Certainly,  Dick,  if  I  can." 

"  I  want  to  go  straight  to  Santa  Clara." 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  Well,  but  I  have  a  good  reason  for  saying 
it ;  it  would  be  better  on  all  accounts  that  you  go 
to  Santa  Clara  first.  1  should  strongly  object  to 
Cynthia  going  to  Midas  Creek  at  all." 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  the  place  for  a  girl  of  her  age  or  her 
exceptional  looks." 

"  She  will  be  perfectly  safe  with  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Meredith,  putting  up  her  chin  with  a  haughty 
gesture. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Meredith,  but  I  happen  to 
know  the  part  of  the  country  where  we  are  going 
to,  and  1  tell  you  that  Cynthia  is  not  going  to 
Midas  Creek  with  my  consent.  As  her  future 
husband  I  object  to  it  very  strongly,  and  I  do 
think  that  my  wishes  should  be  considered  in 
some  degree." 

"  It's  natural  that  Cynthia  should  wish  to  visit 
her  father's  grave." 

"  Not  at  all.  If  you  will  excuse  me  saying 
so  this  once,  Roger  was  nothing  to  Cynthia  be- 
yond the  bare  fact  that  he  was  her  father.  She 


294      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

has  no  remembrance  of  him ;  she  has  no  special 
interest  in  him  except  as  he  affects  you.  I  am 
not  saying  this  to  hurt  you,  Mrs.  Meredith,  but 
believe  me  that  I  am  right.  Cynthia  must  not 
go  to  Midas  Creek." 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  she  shouldn't  go," 
Mrs.  Meredith  persisted. 

"  There  is  every  reason  why  she  shouldn't  go. 
The  most  important  is  that  her  future  husband 
objects  to  it." 

"  But  how  can  I  go  if  Cynthia  is  to  be  left  be- 
hind ?  Where  is  she  to  be' left  ?  " 

"  That's  easy  enough.  If  you  go  to  Santa 
Clara,  and  we  get  our  business  through  with  re- 
gard to  the  property,  I  can  arrange  for  somebody 
to  take  care  of  Cynthia  while  I  take  you  down  to 
Midas  Creek.  You  are  making  a  mistake,  Mrs. 
Meredith  ;  you  had  better  take  my  advice  and 
stop  away.  It  will  be  a  black  and  bitter  disap- 
pointment to  you.  You  will  hear  things  said 
about  Meredith  which  will  hurt  you  beyond  what 
any  words  of  mine  can  express.  He  didn't  bear 
the  character  of  a  Saint  at  Santa  Clara  ;  he  wasn't  a 
popular  man  anyhow.  At  Midas  Creek  you 
will  hear  what  will  hurt  you  :  you  will  hear  noth- 
ing that  would  be  in  any  way  a  satisfaction  to  you. 
As  to  the  six  feet  of  earth  that  covers  him,  what 
difference  is  there  between  one  patch  of  ground 
and  another  ?  My  wish  is  to  spare  you  pain, 


A   New   Idea. 

and  if  you  believe  in  me  at  all  you  will  be  guided 
by  me  in  this  respect ;  if  you  don't  believe  in  me, 
well  you  don't ;  and  you  must  go  your  own  way, 
although  it  isn't  the  right  way.  Still,  if  your 
mind  is  bent  upon  it,  I'll  take  you  down  to  Midas 
Creek  myself,  and  I'll  stay  with  you  ;  but  I  will 
not  allow  Cynthia  to  go  near  the  place." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Meredith  sat  irresolute. 
Dick,  watching  her  keenly,  saw  by  the  tightly 
held  in  under  lip  that  she  was  torn  bv  a  dozen 
conflicting  emotions. 

At  last  she  spoke.  "  Dick,"  she  said,  "  I 
generally  have  a  very  great  respect  for  your  opin- 
ion. You  have  a  clear,  level,  business  head,  and 
I  have  gone  very  much  by  what  you  say,  partly 
for  that  and  partly  because  you  are  my  dear 
Roger's  great  friend.  But,  Dick,  when  you 
tell  me,  or  when  at  least  you  imply  that  I  am  not  a 
sufficient  protector  for  my  daughter  in  California, 
or  any  other  part  of  the  world,  I  consider  that  you 
insult  me." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Meredith,  there  can  be  no  question 
of  insult  between  you  and  me,"  he  said  quietly  ; 
"  you  must  know  that  that  is  the  wish  furthest 
from  my  thoughts  ;  you  must  know  perfectly  well 
that  I  can  have  no  object  but  your  comfort  and 
Cynthia's  ultimate  good  when  I  beg  of  you  to 
consider  my  wishes  in  this  one  respect.  My  dear 
lady,  Meredith  himself  was  so  conscious  of  the- 


A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

wildness  of  the  life  to  which  he  had  grown  accus- 
tomed by  living  in  it  for  fifteen  years,  that  he 
would  not  allow  for  a  moment  that  should  I  find 
you,  as  I  did  find  you,  you  would  ever  consent 
to  come  out  and  share  it.  He  naturally  remem- 
bered you  as  he  had  left  you,  and  he  felt  that  you 
would  instinctively  shrink  from  many  things 
which  had  become  the  habit  of  his  daily  life." 

"  But  you  have  been  seven  years  in  this  same 
place,  living  this  same  life,"  persisted  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith, "  and  I  don't  find  that  it  has  made  any  dif- 
ference to  you.  I  don't  see  that  you  are  any  dif- 
ferent to  your  family.  You  are  still  the  young 
man  of  good  family  who  has  been  in  a  cavalry 
regiment.  I  don't  find  that  you  have  been  de- 
graded by  having  lived  for  seven  years  at  Santa 
Clara." 

"  No,"  said  Dick,  "  you  may  not  find  it ;  but 
you  would  have  seen  a  difference  in  Meredith." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Dick." 

"  I  means  imply  this.  Look  here,  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith, I'm  going  to  speak  this  once  straight  and 
plain  to  you,  and  then,  if  you  please,  we'll  never 
touch  on  the  subject  again.  I  went  out  to  Cali- 
fornia on  account  of  my  lungs ;  1  went  out  with 
money  from  my  father,  with  sufficient  to  start  me 
in  a  decent  way  of  living,  and  from  time  to  time 
my  father  supplemented  that  start  by  further  help. 
Mrs.  Meredith,  from  first  to  last  of  the  whole 


A   New   Idea.  297 

seven  years  that  I  have  spent  in  this  country,  I 
have  lived  the  same  clean  and  wholesome  life  that 
I  was  accustomed  to  live  before  I  came  here. 
Meredith  did  not  follow  the  same  course.  He 
had  been  out  eight  years  when  I  first  met  him  ;  he 
was  then  a  broken  man — broken  in  pocket,  broken 
in  character,  broken  in  constitution.  We  chanced 
on  each  other ;  we  chanced  to  become  friends,  and 
I  was  the  drag  on  the  wheel  of  Meredith's  passions 
which  kept  him  alive  and  in  something  like  de- 
cent condition  until  I  had  no  longer  any  hold  over 
him.  Meredith  knew  life  in  California  better  than 
I  did,  better  than  you  can  ever  know  it ;  but, 
Mrs.  Meredith,  I  know  sufficient  a,nd  I  have 
seen  sufficient  to  make  me  sure  of  one  thing — that 
you  will  make  a  great  mistake  if  you  go  to  Midas 
Creek  and  you  will  regret  it  all  your  life  if  you 
seek  to  identify  yourself  there  as  Meredith's 
widow." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Meredith  was  too  much 
astounded  to  reply.  "  You  mean  to  tell  me,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  that  if  I  went  there  as  my  husband's 
widow  I  should  not  be  safe  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mean  that  you  would  go  in  danger  of 
your  life,"  said  he,  "  but  you  would  certainly  not 
be  safe  from  insult  for  one  thing.  You  would  go 
with  a  deep  feeling  towards  Meredith,  too — the 
feeling  of  nobody  that  you  would  meet.  Remem- 
ber that  Meredith  died  raving  mad  drunk.  If  you 


29^      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

went  to  Midas  Creek  and  you  spoke  of  him  to 
any  one  who  ever  came  in  contact  with  him  during 
that  last  few  days  as  you  spoke  of  him  to  me,  that 
is  as  you  have  thought  of  him  all  these  years,  your 
hearers  would  laugh  in  your  face.  They  might 
not  even  stop  at  that  much." 

"It  wouldn't  be  necessary  for  me  to  say  I  was 
Meredith's  widow,"  said  she. 

"  Well,  if  you  were  to  speak  of  him  to  any  one 
in  Midas  Creek  without  revealing  your  identity, 
you  would  hear  what,  as  I  said  before,  would  hurt 
you  more  than  any  words  of  mine  could  tell. 
There's  nothing  to  be  gained  by  it,  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith, nothing.  Believe  me,  you  had  better  let 
well  alone." 

The  moment  the  words  had  passed  his  lips  he 
realized  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith sat  looking  at  him  with  a  new  light  shining 
in  her  blue  eyes. 

"  Dick,"  she  said,  in  a  curiously  hard,  strained 
voice,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 


Nothing  More. 
CHAPTER  XXVII. 

NOTHING  MORE. 

FOR  a  minute  or  so  Mrs.  Meredith  sat  staring 
at  Dick  Vincent  as  if  she  would  look  into  his  very 
soul. 

"  Dick,"  she  said,  "  you  have  put  a  new  idea 
into  my  head.  What  did  you  mean  when  you 
said  that  it  would  be  best  to  leave  well  alone  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  explain  what  I  meant," 
he  said  deliberately. 

His  heart  was  beating  more  quickly  than 
usual  ;  he  felt  that  some  suspicion  had  been 
aroused  in  her  mind.  Any  sort  of  revelation 
might  take  place  during  the  next  half-hour,  and 
he  nerved  himself  to  meet  what  might  be  before 
him  as  only  a  strong  man  in  perfect  health  would 
have  been  able  to  do. 

"  Look  here  !  "  she  said,  ignoring  his  remark. 
"  I  insist  upon  it  that  we  stop  at  Midas  Creek — 
I  mean  that  we  go  there  first.  I  have  a  reason — 
a  very  urgent,  a  very  cogent  reason." 

"  Not  with  Cyntnia." 

"  Yes,  with  Cynthia." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Meredith ;  I  will  not  give  my 
consent." 


300       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  Your  consent  is  not  necessary.  Cynthia  is 
not  your  wife  yet,  but  Cynthia  is  my  daughter, 
and  she  will  go  where  I  tell  her.  That  will  be  to 
Midas  Creek." 

I  shall  appeal  to  Cynthia." 

"  You  can  appeal  to  Cynthia  if  you  choose,  but 
Cynthia  will  do  my  bidding.  Cynthia  has  never 
disobeyed  me  in  her  life ;  she  is  not  likely  to  be- 
gin now.  Cynthia  is  going  to  Midas  Creek  with 
me  ;  you  can  please  yourself  whether  you  go  or 
not.  I  shall  not  conceal  myself,  or  the  fact  that 
I  am  my  husband's  widow.  What  there  is  to 
learn  about  my  husband's  death  I  will  learn." 

"  What  more  can  you  want  to  learn  than  you 
already  know,  Mrs.  Meredith  ?  You  have  seen 
the  account  of  the  occurrence  in  the  local  jour- 
nal." 

"  I  want  to  make  sure,"  she  said,  looking  at 
him  fixedly,  "  that  my  husband  was  killed." 

He  gave  an  exclamation  of  impatience.  "  My 
dear  Mrs.  Meredith,  this  is  worse  than  folly.  If 
you  have  any  idea  that  Meredith,  poor  fellow,  is 
still  alive " 

"  No,  I  have  no  such  idea.  I  know  that  my 
husband  is  dead,  but,  and  the  question  is  a  large 
one,  was  he  killed  or  was  he  murdered  ?  " 

"  He  was  killed,"  said  Dick,  shortly.  "  You 
have  the  evidence  in  the  papers.  You  can  have 
no  better  proof  than  that." 


Nothing  More.  301 

"  Yes,  I  can  have  better  proof  than  that.  I  can 
have  the  proof  of  the  man  who  was  there  and  saw 
it  done — the  landlord  of  the  hotel." 

"  His  evidence  is  there  in  the  paper." 

"  I  would  prefer  to  have  it  from  his  own  lips. 
How  do  I  know  that  the  editor  of  that  paper  was 
not  paid  to  produce  that  report  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Meredith,  this  is  absolute 
folly,"  said  Dick.  "  Folly  !  " 

"  Perhaps.  If  it  proves  so,  I  am  content  to 
abide  by  it.  You  take  things  too  much  for  granted 
over  in  these  wild  parts  of  the  country.  I  will 
not  do  so.  I  have  been  robbed  of  my  husband," 
she  exclaimed,  working  herself  up  into  a  fury, 
"  and  I  will  have  satisfaction.  I  will  know  the 
truth.  You  got  the  news  in  New  York ;  you 
came  on." 

"  What  was  the  good  of  going  back  ?  " 

"  You  came  on  ;  you  left  him  to  his  fate.  You 
didn't  care." 

"  What  was  the  good  of  caring  ?  The  man 
was  dead." 

"  You  don't  know  that  he  was  dead." 

"  Yes,  1  do." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?     By  the  paper?  " 

"  No,  I  had  a  letter  from  a  man  who  was  pres- 
ent, a  man  I  know." 

"  What  was  his  name  ?  " 

"  His  name  is  Valentine  Clegg." 


3oa      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  An  American  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  knew  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  And  he  wrote  and  told  you  my  husband  was 
dead  ? " 

"He  wrote  me  the  whole  circumstances  of  the 
affair." 

"  Why  didn't  you  show  me  that  letter,  Dick  ?  " 

"  Because  there  was  a  good  deal  in  it  that  I  had 
no  wish  for  you  to  see." 

"Why?" 

"  I  have  already  told  you,  Mrs.  Meredith,  that 
Meredith  did  not  carry  a  very  good  character 
about  with  him.  His  reputation  in  California, 
such  parts  of  it  as  he  was  known,  was  a  bad  one. 
I  should  not  like  you  to  read — being  Roger's 
widow,  and  I  knowing  him  as  I  did,  knowing  the 
good  there  was  in  him — I  should  not  like  you  to 
read  everything  that  Valentine  Clegg  said  about 
him.  He  had  known  him  for  many  years — al- 
most ever  since  he  first  came  out." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  that  letter." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  show  it  to  you." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  destroyed  it." 

"  Why  did  you  destroy  it  ?  " 

"  I  destroyed  it  because  I  then  could  not  show 
it  to  you." 


Nothing  More.  3°3 

"  Did  this  Valentine  Clegg  justify  the  action  of 
the  man  who  killed  my  husband  ? " 

"  Absolutely.  Nobody  could  have  done 
otherwise.  It  was  a  question  of  life  for  life,  and 
the  man  who  had  his  senses  about  him  did  not 
see  being  shot  down  by  the  man  who  was  raving 
mad  drunk.  It's  no  use  shirking  the  truth,  Mrs. 
Meredith,  and,  as  I  told  you,  it  is  less  than  no 
use  for  you  to  go  to  Midas  Creek,  either  in  the 
character  of  an  avenging  spirit  or,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  as  Meredith's  devoted  widow." 

"  Where  does  this  Valentine  Clegg  live  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Meredith,  it  is  not  necessary  to  tell 
you." 

"Yes,  I  will  go  and  see  him." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  must  go  and  see 
him." 

"  I  intend  to  do  so.  Give  me  his  address 
now." 

"  No,  I  shall  not  give  you  Clegg's  address. 
From  what  he  wrote  to  me  he  could  hardly  be 
called  staying  in  the  hotel,  as  he  had  not  been  there 
more  than  five  minutes  when  the  affray  took 
place.  He  wrote  me  from  the  standpoint  of  a 
purely  disinterested  eyed-witness.  It  can  do  you 
no  good  to  see  him.  Look  here — I'll  send  to 
Midas  Creek  for  the  entire  evidence,  which  I  am 
quite  sure  I  can  get  you.  That  will  be  as  worthy 
of  credence  as  if  you  went  and  collected  it  your- 


3°4     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

self,  because  I  shall  get  it  from  the  official 
quarters." 

"  No,  I'll  have  it  at  first  hand.  I'll  go  to 
Midas  Creek,  and  then  I'll  go  to  see  Valentine 
Clegg.  I  shall  get  his  address  from  the  hotel. 
You  are  shielding  somebody." 

"  Mrs.  Meredith  !  " 

"  Yes.  I  am  not  the  least  excited ;  I  am 
speaking  with  an  absolute  knowledge  of  what  I 
am  saying.  It's  borne  in  upon  me  with  an 
insistence  which  I  should  be  a  wicked  woman  to 
disregard.  I  am  quite  calm,  but  I  am  convinced 
that  you  are  hiding  something  from  me.  You 
are  shielding  somebody  ;  you  know  more  than 
you  have  ever  told  me,  and  if  you  will  not  tell 
me  the  truth,  I  will  seek  out  those  who  will." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs.  Meredith  was  most 
horribly  excited.  She  was  trembling  like  an 
aspen  leaf  from  head  to  foot ;  her  face  was  white, 
her  lips  were  strained,  and  her  voice  was  hard 
and  repressed  even  to  monotony. 

"  So,"  she  went  on,  "  it's  no  use  trying  to  hold 
me  back  and  bar  my  progress  any  longer ;  it's  no 
use  to  speak  to  me  of  Cynthia  ;  Cynthia  will  go  the 
way  that  I  go.  The  truth  I  will  have.  If  my 
husband  has  been  done  to  death,  his  murderer 
shall  suffer." 

As  Mrs.  Meredith  grew  more  excited,  so  did 
Dick  Vincent  become  more  absolutely  calm.  He 


Nothing  More.  3°5 

was  past  all  personal  feeling  now.  He  was  playing 
a  game  as  a  game  ;  he  was  playing  it  desperately 
in  earnest,  for  the  issues  to  him  were  more  im- 
portant than  the  issues  of  life  and  death.  He 
was  playing  a  game  of  "  pull  devil  pull  baker," 
between  Mrs.  Meredith's  angry  suspicion  and  the 
chance  of  Cynthia  being  his  wife.  And  he  played 
for  all  he  was  worth. 

"  You  forget,"  he  said,  very  quietly,  "  that 
you  are  speaking  of  a  country  which  is  not  Eng- 
land. You  would  get  no  redress,  you  would  get 
no  fresh  inquest,  you  would  not  even  get  sym- 
pathy. The  jury,  probably  made  up  of  hard- 
headed,  rough  and  ready  men  considered  Mere- 
dith's death  a  pure  accident,  and  in  order  to  ex- 
press their  feeling  in  that  way  they  brought  the 
verdict  in — '  Died  by  the  visitation  of  God.'  If 
I  had  been  the  foreman  of  that  jury,  or  indeed  an 
ordinary  juryman,  I  should  have  suggested  that 
they  would  better  have  expressed  their  feeling  by 
returning  a  verdict  of  '  accidental  death  '  ;  but, 
you  see,  I  was  not  there,  and,  therefore,  they 
followed  their  own  ideas  and  returned  the  verdict 
as  you  know.  As  to  my  shielding  anybody,  as 
to  my  hiding  something,  well,  if  you  like  to  think 
so,  you  must.  I  have  no  objection  to  taking  you 
to  Midas  Creek ;  I  only  object  to  my  future  wife 
going  near  that  place.  I  have  asked  nothing  un- 
reasonable of  you  ;  I  have  only  asked  you  to  take 
20 


306      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

that  journey  when  you  have  seen  the  ranche ; 
and  you  are  not  acting  reasonably  by  me  when 
you  do  everything  you  can  to  thwart  me,  when 
you  go  against  my  fixed  principles  as  regards 
my  fiancee,  when  you  accuse  me  of  something  for 
which  you  have  absolutely  no  grounds." 

"  You  dare  to  say  this  to  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Meredith,  I  dare  to  say  this. 
And  I  shall  dare  to  say  a  good  deal  more  before 
we  have  done.  It  takes  no  such  great  daring." 

"  Then  I  shall  go  to  Midas  Creek  without  you, 
and  I  shall  take  my  daughter  with  me.  If  you 
like  to  give  my  daughter  up " 

"There's  no  question  of  my  giving  your 
daughter  up  ;  I  shall  never  give  your  daughter 
up,  excepting  at  her  own  wish.  And  I  defy  you 
— I  dare  you  to  say  one  word  to  influence  her 
against  me.  If  you  do,  Mrs.  Meredith,  it  will  be 
a  trial  of  strength  between  us,  and  although 
Cynthia  may  have  been  the  most  perfect  daughter 
in  the  world,  she  has  given  her  word  to  me,  she 
has  given  her  love  to  me,  and  I  am  convinced 
that  she  will  abide  by  my  wishes,  because  her 
common-sense  will  tell  her  that  they  are  more 
reasonable  than  yours." 

Mrs.  Meredith  got  up  from  her  seat.  She 
stood,  holding  on  to  the  table  beside  her,  staring 
hard  at  him  and  swaying  unsteadily,  as  if  her  head 
were  in  a  whirl. 


Nothing  More.  3°7 

"  You  think,"  she  began,  "  you  think  that  you 
can  hoodwink  me,  but  you  will  find  your  mis- 
take." 

She  pointed  a  trembling  finger  at  him,  and  then, 
without  a  word  of  warning,  without  a  sigh,  a  gasp, 
or  an  attempt  to  save  herself,  she  dropped  like  a 
stone  at  his  feet.  Dick,  with  an  exclamation  of 
intense  annoyance,  stooped  and  raised  her  from 
the  ground.  He  was  vexed  with  her ;  he  was 
vexed  with  himself.  She  seemed  a  dead  weight  in 
his  arms,  and  he  carried  her  to  the  nearest  couch, 
where  he  laid  her  down,  then  flew  to  the  electric 
button,  ringing  three  times  as  a  signal  to  one  of 
the  chambermaids  to  come  to  him. 

"  Quick  !  this  lady  is  ill !  "  he  exclaimed,  when 
the  maid  arrived.  "  Can  you  get  me  some 
brandy  ?  Stay  !  Perhaps  Miss  Meredith  may 
have  some.  She  has  gone  to  bed  ;  she  cannot  be 
asleep  yet." 

The  maid,  who  was  a  Swede,  stooped  down 
over  Mrs.  Meredith,  and  took  the  cushion  from 
under  her  head.  "  It  is  ze  best  to  put  ze  head 
low,"  she  said  in  a  tone  which  re-assured  him, 
because  it  told  him  that  she  was  not  flurried  at 
Mrs.  Meredith's  state.  "  I  go  see  if  the  youn  - 
lady  has  brandee." 

A  moment  later  she  came  back,  carrying  a 
small  silver  flask  and  a  glass  from  the  toilet  table. 
She  was  immediately  followed  by  Cynthia,  who 


3o3      A  Matter   of  Sentiment. 

had  thrust  on  a  cambric  wrapper  above  her  night- 
dress. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Dick  ?  "  she  said.  "  Is 
mother  ill  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  has  fainted.  Have  you  ever  seen 
her  like  this  before  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  sometimes.  Yes,  that's 
right,  Brincka,  the  lower  the  head,  the  better. 
Rub  the  palms  of  her  hands.  Now,  Dick,  a 
little  of  this  brandy — Oh,  don't  weaken  it  with 
water,  just  a  few  drops  will  be  enough  to  begin." 

Thus  bidden,  Dick  Vincent  forced  a  few  drops 
of  brandy  down  her  throat.  There  was  no  effort 
to  swallow,  and  the  liquid  ran  out  the  corner  of 
her  mouth  on  to  the  cushions  of  the  sofa. 

"  I  think,"  said  Cynthia,  still  rubbing  hard  at 
the  palm  of  one  hand  while  the  Swedish  maid  did 
the  same  with  the  other,  "  I  think  we  should  do 
better  if  we  could  get  a  doctor  here.  This  sort 
of  thing  needs  ether.  There  must  be  a  doctor 
near  to  a  big  hotel  like  this,  possibly  one  living 
here.  Her  pulse  is  so  slow,  and  she  scarcely 
seems  to  breathe.  Wait  a  minute,  I'll  get  some 
scent." 

But  it  was  all  of  no  use.  Brandy,  scent, 
doctor,  daughter,  nothing  had  any  effect  upon  the 
inanimate  form  lying  upon  the  sofa.  A  doctor 
who  happened  to  be  occupying  the  next  suite 
came  quickly  in.  He  took  but  one  glance  at  the 


Nothing  More.  3°9 

sofa,  touched  the  wrist,  bent  down  and  listened 
a  moment  to  the  heart,  then  turned  to  the  maid 
and  said,  "  Give  me  a  looking-glass." 

Cynthia  dropped  her  mother's  hand,  went 
swiftly  into  the  bedroom  and  brought  back  an 
ivory  hand-glass.  She  had  no  idea  why  he  wanted 
it ;  all  this  was  an  absolutely  new  experience  to 
her.  She  watched  the  doctor  with  wide-open 
eyes  in  which  curiosity  was  the  main  expression, 
as  he  held  the  glass  over  Mrs.  Meredith's  lips. 
Then  he  took  it  away,  looked  at  it,  and  glanced 
markedly  at  Vincent. 

"  Are  you  this  lady's  son,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  be  her  son-in-law,"  said  Dick. 
"  This  is  her  daughter." 

The  stranger  turned  and  took  the  girl  by  the 
hand.  "My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  "  it  is 
better  to  tell  you  the  truth  at  once.  We  can  do 
nothing  more." 


310     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A  TERRIBLE  WEEK. 

WHEN  the  doctor  uttered  those  words  to  Cyn- 
thia Meredith — "  We  can  do  nothing  more  " — 
she  looked  at  him  with  eyes  which  unmistakably 
showed  that  she  had  not  in  any  way  taken  in  the 
full  meaning  of  his  words. 

"  I  have  never  done  more  than  given  her  a 
little  brandy,"  she  said,  looking  anxiously  at  him. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "  It's  no 
use  giving  her  brandy  now.  It  is  too  late  to  do 
anything." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said. 

At  this  moment  Dick  took  the  girl's  hand. 
"  Dearest,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  realize  what  the 
doctor  wants  to  tell  you.  He  means  that  you 
have  only  me  now  ;  that  we  must  be  everything 
to  each  other." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  my  mother  is  dead  ?  " 

"  She  is  dead,"  said  the  doctor,  simply. 

Dick  was  holding  her  two  hands  fast  within  his 
own.  He  expected  a  terrible  outbreak  of  grief, 
but  Cynthia  was  absolutely  calm. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  ? "  she  said  to  the  doctor, 
and  then  looking  down  at  the  quiet  face  of  the 


A  Terrible  Week.  3" 

dead,  "  Are  you  sure  that  nothing  can  be  done  ? 
Won't  you  try  to  do  something  ? " 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  done,"  he  said. 
"  Your  mother  is  dead.  She  was,  of  course,  sub- 
ject to  these  attacks  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sometimes.  I  have  known  her  faint,  not 
very  often,  but  never  so  long  as  this.  You  are 
quite  sure  ? " 

"  I  am  quite  sure." 

For  a  few  seconds  the  girl  did  not  speak.  She 
stood  looking  down  on  the  sofa  with  a  blank  face. 
"  You  were  quite  right,  Dick,"  she  said,  at  last, 
looking  up  at  him.  "  You  said  she  would  kill 
herself." 

"  With  what  ?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Oh,  she  was  ill  all  the  way  over ;  yes,  very 
ill.  The  doctor  on  board  said  she  ought  not  to 
have  come.  And  then  she  couldn't  rest ;  she 
wanted  to  see  everything  ;  and  the  heat  was  so 
great ;  she  was  so  energetic,  so  determined  to 
make  the  most  of  her  time,  and  nothing  we  could 
say  made  any  difference.  She  utterly  fagged  her- 
self out." 

"  Ah,  it's  a  pity.  Her  heart  must  have  been 
in  a  state  necessitating  a  very  quiet  life.  I  shall, 
of  course,  be  able  to  speak  more  definitely  later 
on.  What  a  pity  it  is  when  people  take  their 
holidays  too  hard  and  make  a  toil  of  a  pleasure." 

"  Well,  1  did  my  best,"  said   Dick  ;  "  in  fact, 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

I  was  trying  to  persuade  her  not  to  take  a  very 
disagreeable  and  arduous  expedition  when  she 
was  taken  ill.  However,  it's  no  use  to  talk  of 
that  now ;  there  must  be  a  great  deal  to  arrange. 
Cynthia,  I  am  sure  that  you  would  be  better  in 
bed.  I  ought  to  find  somebody  to  stay  with  you 
to-night.  Miss  Meredith,"  he  continued,  turn- 
ing to  the  doctor,  "  does  not  know  a  soul  in  the 
country  ;  and  I  not  a  single  lady  in  New  York." 

The  doctor  did  not  hesitate  for  a  moment. 
"Oh,  that's  easy  enough,"  he  said.  "  I'll  fetch 
my  wife  here.  Come  into  the  next  room,"  he 
added  to  Cynthia ;  "  I  should  like  just  to  run  my 
eye  over  you/' 

He  drew  her  into  the  adjoining  room  and 
listened  a  moment  at  her  heart. 

"Your  heart's  all  right,  he  said.  "I'll  bring 
my  wife  to  you.  I  think  they  had  better  transfer 
you  to  a  room  next  to  ours,  and  she  will  look 
after  you  for  the  night." 

He  had  closed  the  door  of  the  room  where  Mrs. 
Meredith  was  lying,  and  made  a  sign  to  Dick  to 
follow  him  into  the  corridor.  "  She  will  be  better 
when  she  has  had  a  good  burst  of  crying,"  he  said 
in  an  under-tone.  "  She  is  a  good  deal  run  down. 
Has  she  been  sight-seeing  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  has — until  she  absolutely  rebelled 
this  evening,  and  refused  to  do  any  more." 

"  I  see.     What's  her  name  ?  " 


A   Terrible  Week.  3*3 

"  Oh,  Meredith.  Miss  Cynthia  Meredith. 
You  know  that  she  is  engaged  to  me." 

"  I  gathered  as  much.  With  her  mother's  con- 
sent ?  " 

"  Of  course.     Oh,  yes." 

"  Father  living  ?  " 

"  No,  he  isn't.  He  and  I  were  partners  on  a 
ranche  together  in  California.  We  were  on  our 
way  to  settle  up  his  affairs." 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir,  it's  a  pity  you  didn't  get 
married  before  you  left  England.  That  poor 
little  woman  in  there  has  really  driven  herself  to 
death  from  what  I  can  gather  from  a  cursory  ex- 
amination. However,  I'll  go  and  fetch  my  wife. 
By-the-bye,  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Vincent — Richard  Vincent.  Thank  you  a 
thousand  times.  I  really  don't  know  how  to 
thank  you  enough.  You  see,  I'm  so  frightfully 
stranded,  being  left  like  this,  and  if  she  breaks 
down  at  all,  I  shan't  know  what  to  do  with  her. 
It's  awfully  good  of  you." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  a  bit.  My  wife  will  be  delighted  ; 
she's  the  kindest  creature  living.  I  dare  say  she'll 
be  able  to  do  more  with  her  in  five  minutes  than 
you  and  I  would  in  a  week.  And  then  we  must 
have  a  talk  as  to  all  that  will  have  to  be  done. 
You  have  a  very  unpleasant  week  before  you." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Dick.  However,  I  must  go 
through  it  somehow," 


3H      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

It  was  but  the  work  of  a  few  minutes  for  Doctor 
Sergeantson  to  go  back  to  his  own  suite  of  rooms, 
acquaint  his  wife  with  all  that  had  happened,  and 
enlist  her  services  for  the  girl  who  was  so  sud- 
denly bereaved  of  her  only  living  relative. 

Mrs.  Sergeantson  was  a  warm-hearted  Irish- 
woman, impulsive,  quick,  and  intensely  sym- 
pathetic. She  never  attempted  to  stand  upon 
ceremony,  but  rushed  into  Cynthia's  room  as  if 
she  had  known  her  all  the  days  of  her  life. 

"  Oh,  me  poor  child  !  me  poor  dear  child  ! 
How  can  I  find  words  to  tell  you  how  grieved  and 
sorry  I  am  for  the  dreadful  trouble  that  has  fallen 
upon  you  !  "  she  cried. 

Cynthia,  who  was  sitting  by  the  open  window, 
staring  at  nothing,  looked  round  with  a  half-vacant 
stare. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
think  that  I  quite  realize  what  has  happened  yet. 
It's  all  been  so  sudden,  so " 

"  Yes,  me  poor  child,  I  know  perfectly  well. 
You  are  stunned,  poor  darling.  But  you  shall 
not  stay  here  in  this  room  by  yourself.  Come 
and  stay  to-night  with  me.  Come  to  my  suite. 
You  shall  share  my  room  to-night,  and  we'll  turn 
the  doctor  into  the  room  next  door.  Come,  me 
poor  dear,  you  can  do  no  good  here,  and  you 
can't  stay  here  brooding  by  yourself." 

Some   note  in  the   sweet  Irish  voice  or  in  the 


A   Terrible   Week.  3*5 

touch  of  the  tender  hands  made  Cynthia  realize, 

as   nothing  else  had  done,  the  terrible  loss  which 

-ad  befallen  her.     She  caught  her  breath  with  a 

ob  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  called  her 

from  her  bed. 

"  Oh,  why  should  you  be  so  kind  to  me  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  Sure,  me  dear,  because  although  I  never  saw 
you  before  I've  got  a  heart  that  can  ache  for  any- 
one that's  in  trouble.  But  you  must  cheer  up. 
The  doctor  tells  me  that  you've  a  fine  young  man 
that's  going  to  be  your  husband,  and  so  you  won't 
be  as  much  alone  in  the  world  as  if  you  were  left 
all  by  yourself.  Ah,  here's  Brincka.  She's  a 
good  sort  is  Brincka  ;  she's  a  great  friend  of  mine. 
Come  now,  Brincka,  if  I  take  Miss  Meredith  off 
to  me  rooms,  you'll  bring  all  her  things,  won't 
you, — there's  a  good  girl  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sergeantson  well  understood  the  art  of 
getting  what  she  wanted  by  the  soft  methods  of 
persuasion.  Brincka,  who  was  genuinely  sorry 
for  the  great  blow  which  had  befallen  Cynthia, 
readily  promised  to  transfer  all  the  young  lady's 
belongings  to  Mrs.  Sergeantson's  apartments. 

"  Now,  me  dear,  you  can  leave  it  all  to  Brincka," 
cried  Mrs.  Sergeantson.  "  She's  as  clever  as  day- 
light, and  as  kind  as  they  make  'em.  Come 
straight  along  with  me,  there's  a  dear.  There's 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  staying  here,  and  the 


3l6       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

sooner  you  lay  your  weary  head  on  your  pillow 
and  get  you  to  sleep,  the  better." 

"  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  should  ever  sleep  again," 
cried  Cynthia. 

They  were  just  about  to  leave  the  room  when 
an  idea  struck  Mrs.  Sergeantson.  She  stepped 
aside  and  spoke  to  the  Swedish  maid,  who  whis- 
pered something  back  in  reply.  Then  she  turned 
back  to  Cynthia.  "  Me  dear,"  she  said,  "  you'd 
like  to  go  and  take  your  last  look  at  the  little 
mother  ?  She'll  not  be  the  same  to-morrow  per- 
haps. Go  and  say  good-bye  to  her  now.  It 
will  comfort  you  afterwards,  and  I'll  go  with  you, 
and  then  I'll  be  the  better  able  to  talk  to  you 
about  her." 

"  Yes,"  said  Cynthia,  "  perhaps  it  will  help  me 
to  realize  it." 

Mrs.  Sergeantson  looked  into  the  adjoining 
room.  "  There's  no  one  there,"  she  said. 
"  They'll  wait  until  we've  cleared  out  of  the 
road." 

The  dead  woman  was  lying  upon  the  couch 
where  she  had  breathed  her  last,  a  light  sheet  be- 
ing thrown  completely  over  it. 

"  Sure  she  was  a  pretty  creature,"  said  the  Irish 
woman  impulsively,  "  and  you  are  her  living 
image.  Poor  dear  !  poor  dear  !  It's  sad  to  see 
her  like  this.  And  yet  me  husband  said  she 
couldn't  have  suffered  a  pang." 


A  Terrible  Week.  31? 

In  a  moment  the  floodgates  of  Cynthia's  grief 
and  sorrow  were  opened.  She  flung  herself  down 
upon  the  floor  by  her  dead  mother's  side.  The 
Swedish  girl  impulsively  ran  towards  her,  but  the 
doctor's  wiser  wife  touched  her  with  a  warning 
hand  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  a  word,"  she  said  ;  "  I  have  been  waiting 
for  this.  It  had  to  come  sooner  or  later." 

The  Irishwoman  was  very  kind  and  tender  and 
considerate  to  the  forlorn  girl.  She  encouraged 
her  tears  ;  she  tended  and  ministered  to  her ;  she 
took  her  away  to  her  own  cheerful  room  and 
waited  upon  her  as  her  mother  had  never  done. 

So,  knowing  that  she  was  in  good  hands,  Dick 
was  left  free  to  make  all  necessary  arrangements 
with  Doctor  Sergeantson  and  the  authorities. 

At  best  it  was  a  hideous  week  which  followed. 
The  formalities  which  are  necessitated  by  sudden 
death  were  all  got  through  in  due  course, and  as  soon 
as  possible  all  that  was  left  of  Cynthia's  mother 
was  laid  quietly  away  to  rest  in  one  of  the  grave- 
yards of  the  city  to  see  which  she  had  sacrificed 
her  very  life. 

"  And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Sergeantson  to  Dick, 
when  they  were  all  once  more  assembled  in  the 
doctor's  sitting-room,  "  now  what  is  going  to  hap- 
pen?" 

"  Mrs.  Sergeantson,"  said  Dick,  "  you  can  be- 
lieve that  during  the  past  few  days  I  have  been 


3l8      A   Matter   of  Sentiment. 

thinking  that  question  out  with  my  whole  heart. 
Under  the  circumstances,  so  unexpected,  so  tragic, 
I  do  not  see  that  we  have  before  us  but  one 
course." 

"And  that?" 

"  That  is  that  Cynthia  and  I  should  be  married 
immediately  here  in  New  York.  I  know,  dearest," 
he  said,  putting  out  his  hand  to  her,  "  that  this  is 
sudden,  but  we  have  been  in  circumstances  which 
leave  us  little  or  no  choice.  We  both  thought  to 
wait  a  few  months  and  to  go  back  and  be  married 
in  England  in  the  midst  of  our  relations,  but  here 
we  are,  several  thousand  miles  away  from  anybody 
belonging  to  us,  alone  with  each  other,  alone  sav- 
ing for  the  doctor  and  his  kind  wife,  as  alone  as  if 
we  were  on  a  desert  island.  Now,  having  come 
so  far,  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  go  back  without 
completing  the  business  for  which  we  came  across 
the  Atlantic.  I  hold  your  father's  will ;  I  also 
hold  your  mother's  will,  made  just  before  she  left 
England.  You  have  seen  my  mother  and  my 
people ;  you  know  that  you  will  be  absolutely 
welcome  to  them  whether  you  go  back  as 
Cynthia  Meredith  or  as  my  wife.  It  will  simplify 
everything  if  we  are  married  now.  We  can  then 
go  to  Santa  Clara  without  any  difficulty.  We  can 
wind  up  your  father's  estate,  we  can  arrange  what 
shall  become  of  the  ranche,  and  then  go  back  to 
England  to  take  up  our  life  together  in  the  home 


A  Terrible  Week.  3*9 

which  would  have  been  yours  in  any  case  after  a 

few  months.     What  do  you  say,   Mrs.  Sergeant- 

?» 

"  Sure,  I  think  it  is  the  very  best  plan  that 
could  possibly  be,"  said  the  doctor's  wife. 

"  You   have  no  fear  that  your  mother ?  " 

began  Cynthia. 

"My  dear,  I  have  no  fear  of  anybody,"  he  ' 
replied.  "  You  know  perfectly  well  that  my 
mother  was  delighted  when  we  announced  our  en- 
gagement to  her;  she  was  delighted.  To  her  you 
are  the  ideal  daughter-in-law.  I  suppose,"  he 
said,  turning  to  the  doctor,  "  that  there  will  be  no 
great  difficulty  in  arranging  for  a  marriage  to  take 
place  as  soon  as  possible  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there  are  a  few  formalities  to  go  through, 
of  course — the  .same  as  in  any  country  ;  they  are, 
if  anything,  fewer  here  than  at  home.  Anyway, 
the  wife  and  I  will  be  delighted  to  keep  Miss 
Cynthia  with  us." 

"  Don't  call  me  Miss  Cynthia,"  Cynthia  broke 
in,  pathetically  eager  to  show  how  she  appreciated 
the  kindness  which  had  been  lavished  upon  her. 

"  Well,  I  won't.  I  don't  feel,  although  we 
have  only  known  you  a  few  days,  I  don't  feel  like 
a  stranger  to  you.  We  shall  be  delighted,  Vin- 
cent, to  keep  Cynthia  with  us  until  she  is  safely 
your  wife.  I  think  you  are  perfectly  wise,  and 
everybody  concerned — that  is  to  say  your  mother 


320 


Matter  of  Sentiment. 


and  your  sisters ;  nobody  else  will  matter — will 
certainly  agree  that  you  had  no  other  course  open 
to  you.  Then  you  can  go  along  on  your  journey, 
get  through  your  business  in  your  own  time,  and 
stay  a  few  days  with  us  on  your  way  back." 

"  And  then,"  said  Dick  Vincent,  holding  out 
his  hand,  "  our  greatest  desire  will  be  that  you 
and  Mrs.  Sergeantson  should  come  and  stay  with 
us  at  Hollingridge." 


Dick's  Way.  3" 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

DICK'S  WAY. 

IT  is  an  easy  thing  to  get  married.  All  the 
great  epochs  of  life,  those  about  which  we  are  ac- 
customed to  make  the  most  fuss,  may  be  accom- 
plished without  any  fuss  at  all.  How  easily  some 
people  die  !  Quietly,  unobtrusively,  like  guests 
who  wish  to  slip  away  without  spoiling  a  party, 
some  people  lay  down  the  armor  of  life  and  slip 
so  gently  away  out  of  our  midst  that  we  hardly 
miss  them  until  they  are  actually  gone.  So  in 
spite  of  the  fuss  that  is  usually  made  about  wed- 
dings, it  is  quite  possible  and  easy  to  be  married 
without  any  fuss  at  all ;  and  with  the  help  of  the 
doctor,  who  had  proved  himself  such  a  good 
friend  to  Dick  and  Cynthia,  the  two  were  married 
in  the  Church  of  the  Strangers  at  New  York  one 
day  early  in  November. 

Any  feeling  that  Cynthia  might  have  had  of 
being  married  in  a  corner,  of  having  in  a  sense 
run  away  to  be  married,  was  quite  dispelled  by  a 
cable  from  her  future  mother-in-law,  to  whom 
Dick  had  at  once  cabled  the  news  of  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith's death  and  his  intention  of  marrying  Cyn- 
21 


322      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

thia  without  delay.  "  Deeply  grieved,"  it  said. 
"  Fully  approve."  So  it  was  with  what  you 
might  call  the  skeleton  of  a  maternal  blessing  that 
the  two  went,  accompanied  by  the  doctor  and  his 
wife,  to  the  Church  of  the  Strangers,  and  were 
made  one ;  and  when  they  had  celebrated  the 
event  by  a  quiet  little  feast  together,  they  set  off 
on  their  long  journey  towards  Santa  Clara. 

It  was  not  until  then  that  Dick  Vincent  per- 
mitted himself  to  breathe  freely.  It  is  difficult 
to  explain  his  feelings  at  this  time.  His  first 
sensation,  when  he  realized  that  Mrs.  Meredith 
was  dead,  had  been  one  of  actual  horror  ;  his  next 
of  care  for  Cynthia  ;  and  this  had  been  speedily 
followed  by  a  feeling,  which  would  not  be  shaken 
off  or  got  rid  of,  that  he  had  been  mercifully  de- 
livered out  of  a  terrible  situation  ;  that  he  had 
been  spared  a  near  chance  of  losing  the  only 
girl  he  had  ever  loved — the  girl  who  loved  him 
with  all  her  heart  and  soul.  He  knew  that  if 
Mrs.  Meredith  had  ever  accomplished  her  wish 
and  got  to  Midas  Creek,  she  would  inevitably 
have  discovered  everything ;  she  had  been  so 
plainly  and  unmistakably  on  the  right  track. 
And  he  knew,  although  no  real  blame  could  be 
imputed  to  him  even  by  her,  that  all  chance  of 
happiness  for  him  would  have  been  at  an  end 
for  ever. 

Cynthia,  after  the  first  few  days,  had  recovered 


Dick's   Way.  323 

wonderfully  from  the  awful  shock  of  her  mother's 
death.  It  is  so  much  easier  to  get  over  a  loss 
when  one  is  in  the  midst  of  strange  scenes,  when 
one's  life  is  full,  and  one's  heart  has  an  occupant 
which  for  the  time  is  sufficiently  enthralling  to  push 
every  other  interest  to  one  side.  So,  by  the  time 
they  started  on  the  first  stage  of  their  journey 
which  would  eventually  bring  them  to  Santa  Clara, 
Dick  was  feeling  that  at  last  he  could  allow  him- 
self to  be  utterly  happy.  And  Cynthia — well, 
with  Cynthia  happiness  took  the  form  of  breath- 
less gratitude  to  think  that  Dick,  so  handsome, 
young,  well-born,  straight  and  clean  and  whole- 
some, should  have  fixed  his  affections  upon  her. 
It  was  extraordinary.  Of  course,  she  gave  the 
credit  of  it  all  to  that  mysterious  fetish  which  we 
call  Providence.  "  And  the  best  of  it  is,"  she 
said  to  him,  as  they  waved  a  last  adieu  to  the 
doctor  and  his  wife,  "  you  would  have  cared  for 
me  just  the  same  if  I  hadn't  had  a  penny  to  my 
fortune." 

"  Perhaps  even  a  little  more,"  corrected  Dick. 

"Well,  you  might.  But  I  don't  altogether 
believe  in  that ;  at  least,  I  don't  like  to  think  that 
under  any  circumstances  you  could  have  liked 
me  better.'* 

"  You  are  quite  right,  child  ;  I  couldn't.  Only 
'  like '  is  such  a  wishy-washy  word  for  what  I  feel 
for  you," 


324      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

Well,  they  spent  a  couple  of  weeks  dawdling 
along  the  road  to  that  part  of  California  in  which 
Santa  Clara  was  situated,  and  at  last  they  arrived 
at  the  mansion  which  Dick  had  painted  in  such 
unpromising  colors  to  his  fiancee's  mother. 

Cynthia  was  openly,  frankly,  childishly  disap- 
pointed. "  Is  that  the  place  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Not 
those  sheds  ?  " 

Dick  laughed.     "  Yes,  that  is  the  mansion." 

"  But,  Dick,  there  must  be  a  house  some- 
where." 

"  That  is  the  house." 

"  Oh  !  "  Her  tone  was  redolent  of  the  inten- 
sest  disappointment.  "  Oh,  what  would  poor 
mother  have  thought  of  it  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  told  her  what  to  expect." 

"  Yes,  dear — yes.  But  you  never  gave  such  a 
picture  of — Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  how  to  put 
it,  but  it's  like  a  cattle  shed.  I  expected  to  see  a 
long,  low,  white  house  with  a  piazza,  and  ham- 
mocks, and  easy-chairs,  and  lots  of  plants  and 
flowers,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  It's  a  sort  of 
lean-to  without  another  side  to  it.  Dick,  how 
could  you  stay  here  for  seven  years?" 

Dick  Vincent  laughed.  "  Well,  you  know, 
dearest,  I  didn't  care  tuppence  about  the  pretti- 
ness  of  the  place — or  perhaps  I  should  rather  say 
the  nonprettiness  of  the  place.  I  had  set  my 
teeth  into  it,  and  I  intended  to  make  it  pay.  It's 


Dick's  Way. 

all  very  well  if  you  can  buy  a  fancy  ranche  in  a 
picked  quarter,  then  life  on  a  ranche  may  be  very 
nice  ;  but  here,  where  you  have  to  start  from  the 
beginning,  where  you  never  see  a  decent  soul  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end,  only  those  that  are  playing 
the  same  game  as  yourself,  some  succeeding  and 
some  making  the  most  hideous  failures,  there  is 
something  very  grim  and  extremely  unpleasant 
about  the  whole  thing.  But  mind  you,  we  made 
it  pay  before  we  struck  that  oil  well." 

"  1  am  sure  you  did,"  said  Cynthia,  with  an 
adoring  glance  at  him.  "  But  what  pluck  you 
must  have  had !  You  had  dear  Hollingridge 
with  all  its  beauty  ever  in  your  mind ;  you  knew 
it  would  be  yours  one  day,  even  though  you 
didn't  like  to  think  about  it.  How  could  you 
put  up  with  this  ?  " 

Oh,  well,  one  gets  used  to  things.  After  all, 
one  only  lives  one  day  at  a  time." 

"  Do  you  get  used  to  things  ?  "  said  Cynthia. 
"  I  don't  believe  it.  Do  you  know,  Dick,  I 
never  got  used  to  being  a  teacher  in  a  village 
school  ?  You  might  say,  (  Oh,  that's  nonsense  ! 
Her  mother  was  always  poor  ;  she  had  known 
nothing  better.  She  was  not  like  a  person  who 
lost  a  big  position  within  her  memory.'  I  don't 
believe  it  makes  a  bit  of  difference ;  if  you  are 
not  congenial  to  the  life  you  are  in,  you  never  get 
used  to  it.  There  only  comes  a  time  when  you 


326      A   Matter   of  Sentiment. 

don't  mind  it.  If  I  had  gone  on  till  I  was  ninety 
teaching  those  wretched  little  stupid  children,  I 
should  always  have  hated  it  just  the  same." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Because  you  were  utterly  out  of  your 
natural  sphere ;  that  is  understandable  enough. 
But  in  a  case  like  this,  where  you.  are  working  for 
an  end — I  had  two  ends  to  work  for,  for  I  wanted 
to  buck  my  lungs  up  and  I  wanted  to  make  the 
show  pay — one  puts  up  with  things,  discomforts, 
all  the  rest  of  it,  as  a  means  to  an  end.  But, 
dearest,  we'll  not  stay  here  a  day  longer  than  is 
necessary  to  wind  up  affairs.  It  will  be  compar- 
atively easy,  but  it  will  take  some  weeks.  Do 
you  think  you  can  be  happy  here  till  we  are 
through  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Dick,  I  can  be  happy  anywhere  where 
you  are.  Why,  I  shouldn't  mind  living  here  alto- 
gether, so  long  as  I  had  you.  It  isn't  what  I 
expected,  no.  I  suppose  hardly  any  strange  place 
is  quite  what  one  expects ;  I  have  never  seen  one 
yet  that  was." 

But  with  all  her  cheerfulness  and  all  her  love 
Cynthia  did  not  in  the  smallest  degree  take  any 
different  view  of  Santa  Clara.  "  Poor  mother  !  " 
she  said,  over  and  over  again,  "  how  disappointed 
she  would  have  been.  It's  almost  as  well,  Dick, 
that  she  didn't  live  to  come  here.  She  would 
have  hated  it  all.  Even  if  my  father  had  lived 
she  would  never  have  been  happy  here.  She 


Dick's   Way.  3*7 

loved  prettiness,  daintiness,  comfort  and  conveni- 
ence— -just  as  she  loved  flowers  and  the  sunshine. 
Hers  was  a  most  luxurious  nature,  although,  poor 
dear,  she  had  to  do  without  luxury  all  the  best 
years  of  her  life. 

"  If  your  father  had  lived,"  said  Dick,  "  it 
would  have  been  by  no  means  a  sine  qua  non 
that  your  mother  should  make  Santa  Clara  her 
permanent  home.  You  forget  that  he  would  have 
been  able  to  live  in  any  part  of  the  world  that  he 
liked,  just  as  you  and  I  are  going  to  do.  For  my 
part,  and  with  all  my  heart,  child,  I  wish  that 
they  had  both  lived  to  come  together  again.  It 
was  equally  hard  on  the  man  who  had  toiled  for 
years  and  years,  trying  this  scheme  and  that,  tak- 
ing first  this  road  and  then  the  other,  to  have 
everything  go  wrong  just  when  he  had  grasped 
the  prize.  Life  is  very  hard  for  some  people  ;  I 
think  of  it  every  day  ;  and  it  was  harder,  perhaps, 
for  the  woman  who  had  waited  all  the  best  years 
of  her  life,  only  to  find  too  late  that  the  man  she 
loved  had  been  faithful  to  her  and  had  loved  her 
to  the  very  end.  I  feel,  child,  as  if  I  must  try  to 
make  you  happier  than  the  ordinary  run  of  wo- 
men ;  as  if  I  should  in  a  way  so  make  up  to  your 
mother  for  the  happiness  that  she  missed.  But 
we  will  go  home,  dearest.  I  don't  feel,  now  that 
1  have  come  back  again,  like  holding  on  to  any 
responsibilities  in  this  country.  I'd  rather  realize 


328      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

everything  and  go  home,  and  live  our  own  mod- 
est, contented  life  at  Hollingridge.  There  is  no 
especial  happiness  in  great  wealth  ;  one's  first  feel- 
ing is — Well,  here's  an  oil  well  worth  ten  thou- 
sand a  year.  If  we  know  ten  thousand  is  com- 
ing in  we  shall  insensibly  creep  up  in  our  expen- 
diture, enlarge  our  ideas,  and  then  if  anything 
were  to  happen — I  mean  if  the  blessed  well  were 
to  dry  up — we  should  have  to  cut  down  every- 
thing, which  would  be  horrid.  But  if  we  realize 
it  all  now  we  can  invest  our  money  in  good  Eng- 
lish securities,  and  we  can  regulate  our  expendi- 
ture accordingly.  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

In  truth  Cynthia  was  so  disappointed  with 
Santa  Clara  and  all  connected  with  it,  that  she 
was  ready  to  agree  to  anything  that  seemed  good 
to  her  husband,  and  Dick  therefore  regarded  the 
eventful  disposal  of  the  ranche  as  a  settled  thing 
and  only  a  question  of  time.  But  neither  in  Amer- 
ica nor  in  any  other  country  wherein  laws  exist 
and  take  effect  can  the  wills  of  two  persons  be 
duly  arranged  for  and  carried  out  without  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  delay.  Christmas  had  come  and 
gone  before  Dick  Vincent  was  in  a  position  to 
begin  negotiations  for  the  disposal  of  the  ranche. 
Cynthia  was  terribly  disappointed  that  they  were 
not  able  to  spend  Christmas  at  Hollingridge. 

"If  you  knew,"  she  said,  in  one  letter  to  her 
mother-in-law,  "  what  an  isolated  life  I  have 


Dick's  Way.  3^9 

lived,  I  who  have  not  one  relation  in  the  world, 
you  would  understand  how  I  yearn  to  be  with  you 
at  this  time.  But  this  tiresome  old  ranche  is 
still  on  our  hands  ;  not  that  it  is  likely  to  stay  on 
our  hands,  for  oil  wells  always  fetch  their  price, 
but  it  has  not  changed  owners  yet,  because  Dick 
could  not,  although  he  pushed  the  lawyers  as  hard 
as  he  could,  get  affairs  settled  so  as  to  be  able  to 
set  about  selling  Santa  Clara." 

"  Dear  little  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent  to 
Laura,  "  she  didn't  in  the  least  want  to  go  out 
there.  It  was  her  mother's  insistence  that  carried 
that  point.  Dick  hated  their  going.  How  much 
better  it  would  have  been  if  they  had  stayed 
quietly  here  with  us,  or  divided  their  time 
between  us  and  Brighton,  and  let  Dick  go  and 
arrange  everything.  I  hate  women  who  want  to 
go  and  poke  their  noses  into  everything." 

"  Well,  she  got  married,"  remarked  Laura. 

"  Yes,  she  got  married,  that's  true — but  what 
is  that  ?  She  missed  all  the  wedding  presents." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  the  wedding  presents 
would  have  counted  for  much,  as  she  hasn't  a 
relation  in  the  world.  And  we  shall  all  give  them 
wedding  presents  just  the  same,"  Laura  cried. 

"  Ah,  yes,  that  is  so  ;  yes,  that  is  so.  Well, 
my  dear,  I  don't  like  to  say  anything  unkind,  and 
it  isn't  nice  to  speak  ill  of  the  dead,  but  really  I 
think  Dick  won't  be  any  the  less  happy  because 


33°      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

his  wife's  mother  chose  to  have  her  own  way  in 
this  instance." 

"If  Dick  isn't  happy  with  that  sweet  little 
wife,"  said  Laura,  "  then  he  deserves  to  be  un- 
happy." 

"  And  if  anybody,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent  in  quite 
a  severe  tone,  "  deserves  to  be  happy  throughout 
the  rest  of  his  life,  it  is  my  dear  Dick.  No, 
Laura,  I  am  not  partial.  I  always  feel  with  re- 
gard to  you  children  that  I  am  not  partial.  Dick's 
as  good  as  gold  and  as  straight  as  a  die." 

"  I  wasn't  saying  anything  against  Dick, 
mother,"  said  Laura  with  a  smile. 


Disillusionized.  33 l 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

DISILLUSIONIZED. 

THE  sojourn  of  Dick  Vincent  and  his  wife  at 
the  ranche  of  Santa  Clara  was  but  another  render- 
ing of  the  old  saying,  "  All  things  come  to  him 
who  can  afford  to  wait."  In  time  even  the  most 
intricate  legal  matters  will  arrange  themselves,  and 
when  they  are  clearly,  concisely  and  simply  laid 
down  in  black  and  white  in  the  shape  of  a  will, 
the  time  of  waiting  is  not  very  long.  It  seemed  long 
to  Cynthia  because  she  yearned  for  the  dignity  and 
comfort  of  an  English  home.  To  Dick  the  time 
seemed  positively  to  fly.  He  was  so  happy,  so  ab- 
solutely satisfied  and  content  with  the  wife  that  he 
had  chosen,  that  he  did  not  really  care  whether  they 
stayed  at  Santa  Clara  a  few  months  more  or  less. 
He  had  remembered  to  take  up  from  New  York 
a  box  of  odds  and  ends  of  things  which  would,  he 
felt,  transform  the  place  into  something  more  like 
the  semblance  of  a  hom^  than  he  had  left  it.  He 
had  written  to  his  manager,  Jack  Frogg,  to  see  if 
he  could  not  get  up  certain  articles  of  furniture 
from  the  next  town,  and  among  them  was  a  little 
piano,  which  had  once  belonged  to  a  young 


332      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

English  bride,  who  had  gone  out  full  of  hope  and 
joy  and  had  not  survived  the  ennui  and  misery 
of  life  on  an  isolated  ranche  until  the  anniversary 
of  her  wedding  day  came  round  again.  When  all 
these  extras  had  been  arranged  and  put  in  their 
places,  the  "  mansion,"  as  he  always  called  the 
house  on  the  ranche,  represented  to  him  as  good 
a  home  as  anybody  in  California  need  desire.  But 
Cynthia,  although  she  was  more  sweet  and  more 
companionable  and  delightful  than  even  his  fond- 
est dreams  had  imagined  her  to  be,  never  for  one 
moment  accepted  Santa  Clara  as  anything  but  a 
temporary  abiding  place. 

"  No,  dear,"  she  said  one  day,  when  Dick  pro- 
t  posed  to  buy  in  some  more  furniture  from  a  neigh- 
boring sale,  "  it  isn't  worth  while.  What  we  have 
will  do  for  us  very  well  as  long  as  we  are  here. 
What  is  the  good  of  burdening  ourselves  with  a 
single  chair  more  when  we  have  got  Hollingridge 
waiting  for  us  at  home  ?  " 

"  One  would  think,"  said  Dick,  putting  his  arm 
round  her  and  looking  fondly  down  upon  her, 
"that  Hollingridge  was  your  childhood's  home, 
not  mine." 

"  Ah,  it's  women  who  \  alue  houses  and  homes," 
said  she,  wisely.  "  1  doa't  suppose  your  father 
cared  half  as  much  for  Hollingridge  as  your 
mother  did  ;  and  1  am  sure — yes  sure,  Dick — 
that  you  don't  think  a  quarter  as  much  of  it  as  I 


Disillusionized.  333 

do.     This  is  all  so  much  waste  time.     How  soon 
do  you  think  you  shall  be  able  to  start  ? " 

"  Well,  if  all  goes  on  all  right,  we  shall  be  able 
start  towards  the  end  of  the  month.  But  you 
would  like  to  see  San  Francisco,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  San  Francisco  ?  Oh,  no,  Dick.  When  we 
have  thoroughly  satiated  ourselves  with  Holling- 
ridge,  with  little  spells  of  London  in  between, 
we'll  go  to  Rome  and  to  Munich.  I  have  a  great 
desire  to  see  Munich ;  and  I  would  like  to  see 
Dresden  very  much.  But  San  Francisco  no.  I 
dare  say  it  is  very  beautiful  ;  I  think  I  have  always 
heard  so — the  *  Golden  Gate,'  isn't  it  ?  But  I 
don't  think  we'll  stop  any  longer  out  here  just  for 
San  Francisco.  You  have  seen  it,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  have  been  there  several  times." 
»    "  Then  you  don't  want  to  see  it  again  ?  " 

"  Only  for  your  sake." 

"  Ah,  then  for  my  sake  we  will  go  home.  We 
will  go  home  and  make  much  of  Hollingridge. 
But  Dick,  you  didn't  tell  me  that  you  had  sold 
the  ranche." 

"  1  have  not ;  but  those  fellows  who  were  here 
yesterday  told  me  that  they  would  let  me  have  an 
answer  to-morrow  without  fail,  and  if  they  give 
my  price  we  shall  have  nothing  to  grumble  about 
when  we  go  off  homewards." 

"  Are  they  going  to  take  it  as  it  stands  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  don't  care  to  have  a  lot  of  strangers 


334     A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

about.  You  see,  they  may  strike  oil  somewhere 
else  ;  where  there  is  one  oil  well,  there  are  very 
often  two,  even  three  ;  and  it  is  a  fine  thing  to 
keep  your  neighborhood  fairly  clear.  They  are 
going  to  use  the  house  for  the  manager  to  live  in  ; 
and  as  for  the  vines  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
they'll  let  all  that  slide.  To-morrow  we  shall 
know  ;  to-day,  dearest,  come  out  with  me  and  let 
us  go  along  towards  the  Lee  Morrisons'.  Mrs. 
Lee  Morrison  would  like  to  see  you,  I  know ; 
and  you  haven't  been  there  for  a  month." 

"  That  is  unkind  of  me,"  said  Cynthia,  "  be- 
cause Mrs.  Lee  Morrison  has  been  very  nice  to 
me  since  I  have  been  out  here.  Dick,  I'd  like  to 
make  her  a  present  before  I  go  back.  She  was 
good  to  you,  wasn't  she  ?  " 

"  Very  good.  She  nursed  me  in  the  last  go  of 
fever  I  had." 

"  Did  she  ?  You  never  told  me  that.  Do  you 
think,  Dick,  we  could  afford  to  give  her  the 
piano  ?  " 

"  We  can  afford  anything  that  you  like  in 
reason." 

"  Is  the  piano  in  reason,  Dick  ?  I  know — I 
happen  to  know,  it  would  be  a  great  treat  to  that 
little  woman.  She  plays  exquisitely,  and  Lee 
Morrison  has  had  such  a  hard  fight  with  his  ranche 
that  he  has  never  been  able  to  afford  even  to  hire 
one  for  her." 


Disillusionized.  335 

"  Cynthia,  dearest,  how  good  and  thoughtful 
and  kind-hearted  you  are.  Nobody  but  you 
would  have  thought  of  giving  the  little  woman  so 
much  pleasure.  We'll  go  and  see  her  this  after- 
noon, and  then  you  can  tell  her  your  idea." 

"  Oh,  no,"  cried  Cynthia.  "  I'll  send  it  over 
in  a  cart  and  let  it  be  a  surprise.  Why,  it's  half 
the  beauty  of  giving  it  to  send  it  as  a  surprise," 
she  laughed.  "But  I'll  go  over  with  you.  Dear 
little  woman  !  I  hope  she  doesn't  think  that  I 
have  neglected  her." 

"  Oh,"  said  Dick,  easily,  "she  knows  you  have 
plenty  to  do.  Don't  worry  about  that.  People 
out  here  don't  spy  into  one's  motives  and  count 
visits,  as  they  do  over  in  the  old  country.  Child, 
if  you  have  not  been  able  to  keep  up  with  your 
callers  here,  what  the  dickens  will  you  do  when 
you  get  to  Hollingridge." 

"  It  will  be  different  at  Hollingridge." 

"  Will  it  ?  I  believe  that  my  mother  had  sixty- 
three  families  on  her  visiting  list ;  I  gathered  as 
much  the  last  time  I  heard  the  subject  mentioned. 
You  have  to  call  on  each  so  many  times  a  year  ; 
you  have  to  call  after  every  dinner  party  and  every 
function,  and  they  have  to  do  as  much  for  you. 
You  will  have  to  play  the  Lady  Bountiful  to  the 
entire  village  ;  to  go  down  and  hear  the  kids  read  in 
the  school — you  know  the  kind  of  thing — t  John — 
was — a — good — little — boy.'  You'll  have  to  give 


336      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

away  prizes ;  you'll  have  to  give  a  cup  for  the 
Agricultural  Show,  and  very  likely  you'll  have  to 
present  the  awards.  You'll  have  to  go  along  do- 
ing the  civil  and  the  gracious  until  your  soul  is 
sick  within  you." 

"  I'll  do  it,"  said  she,  confidently.  "  Oh,  I'll 
do  it." 

"  Now  my  mother,"  he  went  on,  "  had  a  cer- 
tain genius  for  that  kind  of  thing.  I  went  out 
with  her  one  afternoon  just  before  I  came  down 
to  Blankhampton,  and  she  took  me  what  she  was 
pleased  to  call  *  a  round  of  visits.'  A  round  of 
visits  !  Seventeen  houses  did  we  go  to,  and  she 
timed  every  one  of  them  so  that  there  wasn't  a 
soul  at  home.  When  we  got  to  the  last  one,  she 
was  getting  to  feel  peckish ;  so  she  was  very 
pleased  to  go  in  like  a  dignified  Gulf  Stream  and 
talk  about  nothing  for  twenty  minutes.  She  told 
me  as  we  drove  up  the  avenue  that  there  was  a 
pretty  daughter  there.  She  wasn't  my  idea  of 
prettiness." 

"  But  you  hadn't  seen  me  then." 

"  No,  I  hadn't  seen  you,  child.  And  yet,  I 
think  I  must  have  done  somewhere  in  my  dreams, 
or  in  some  other  incarnation,  because  when  I  first 
saw  you  that  morning  in  St.  Thomas's  Street,  I 
knew,  somehow  or  other,  that  you  were  the  other 
half  of  my  soul,  and  everything  that  I  had  ever 
admired  or  wanted  from  the  beginning  of  time." 


Disillusionized.  337 

Within  a  week  from  that  time  Dick  had  brought 
the  negotiations  for  the  sale  of  the  ranche  to  a 
conclusion,  and  the  time  when  they  would  be  able 
to  leave  California  forever  came  within  measurable 
distance.  Cynthia  went  to  and  fro  as  gayly  as 
any  bird,  with  always  a  snatch  of  a  song  on  her 
lips  and  such  unfeigned  satisfaction  about  her 
whole  mien  that  Dick  was  constrained  to  laugh  at 
her  every  time  that  they  met. 

"  I  believe,"  he  said  to  her  one  morning,  when 
she  was  gaily  planning  out  the  programme  for 
their  return  journey,  "  I  believe  you  hate  Cali- 
fornia." 

"  Oh,  I  do,"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  I  do.  It's  so 
unlike  everything  that  I  had  pictured.  I  have 
no  doubt  the  air  is  lovely,  dear,  I  don't  deny  it 
for  a  moment — but  air  isn't  quite  everything. 
How  you  could  exist  here  for  seven  long  weary 
years  I  can't  think.  But  of  course  you  knew  it 
was  only  for  a  time ;  it  wasn't  your  life,  it  was  only 
a  kind  of  slice  out  of  it.  Of  course,  I  owe  Cali- 
fornia one  debt,"  she  said ;  "  it  gave  you  to  me." 

"  Yes,  we  shall  of  course  owe  it  that  debt,"  said 
Dick. 

"  Yes.  It  not  only  gave  you  to  me,  Dick,  it 
preserved  you  for  me.  No,  I  don't  mean  your 
chest ;  I  don't  believe  there  was  ever  anything 
much  the  matter  with  that ;  but  if  you  had  gone 

on  in  England,  you  certainly  would  have  been 
22 


338       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

married  long  before  I  had  the  chance  of  meeting 
you." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  don't  believe  I  should  ever 
have  married." 

"  Ah,  that  is  as  may  be.  Anyway,  here  we 
are,  man  and  wife,  and  we  must  make  the  best  of 
each  other." 

She  uttered  the  words  with  an  air  of  offering  a 
challenge,  and  Dick,  who  was  still  desperately  in 
love,  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  merged  the  hus- 
band in  the  lover  instantly. 

"  Oh,  child,  child,"  he  cried,  "  do  you  think 
you  will  always  make  the  best  of  me  ? " 

"  Well,  I'll  try,"  she  replied,  coquettishly, 
"  I'll  try.  It  will  be  hard,  but  I'll  do  my  best." 

Dick  still  held  her  tight  clasped  to  his  breast. 
"  You  promise  me  that  you  will  ?  " 

"  Dick,"  she  said,  reproachfully,  "  haven't  you 
any  faith  in  me  ?  Haven't  I  promised  you  the 
same  thing  over  and  over  again  ?  One  would 
think  that  there  was  some  sort  of  Damocles' 
sword  hanging  over  your  head ;  that  some  bogey 
man  might  come  round  the  corner  and  wrest  me 
away  from  you,  whether  I  would  or  not.  I  dare 
say  we  shall  have  a  few  rubs  in  our  married  life ; 
other  people  all  seem  to  have  them.  What  have 
you  in  your  mind  ?  Nothing,  I  hope,  that  I 
have  said  or  looked  or  done  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  he  said,  "  except  that  J  have  not 


Disillusionized.  339 

yet  got  used  to  the  fact  that  you  are  mine.  I 
always  feel  that  something  or  somebody  might 
come  in  and  tear  you  away  from  me." 

"  Make  your  mind  quite  easy  on  that  score, 
dear  Dick,"  said  she.  "  All  the  world  isn't  going 
to  run  after  me  because  you  happen  to  be  in  love 
with  me.  Don't  forget — although,  mind  you,  I 
think  it  is  very  bad  policy  on  my  part  to  cheapen 
myself  to  you — but  don't  forget  that  I  lived  to 
be  eighteen  years  old  and  never  had  a  lover  until 
you  came  along." 

"Not  one?" 

"  Well,  no,  not  a  real  one.  There  were  one  or 
two  young  men  who  cast  sheep's  eyes  at  me,  but 
somehow  it  never  went  any  further  than  that.  I 
used,"  she  went  on,  "  sometimes  in  the  bright 
summer  evenings,  when  I  saw  ^all  the  girls  in 
Gatehouses  with  their  young  men  dangling  after 
them — you  know  how  life  runs  in  a  little  place 
like  that,  a  little  tennis,  a  little  boating,  a  little 
dancing,  and  then  there's  an  engagement  and  a 
lot  of  wedding  presents  and  another  couple  started 
— I  used  to  wonder  whether  I  should  ever  be 
like  one  of  those  girls  and  have  a  man  to  order 
about,  to  be  at  my  beck  and  call,  to  carry  my 
tennis  racket  and  my  tennis  shoes,  and  generally 
make  himself  useful,  to  bring  me  flowers,  and  you 
know,  Dick,  all  the  rest  of  it.  And  then " 

"Well?" 


340     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  I  used  to  shake  my  head  and  say,  f  No,  Cyn- 
thia Meredith,  you  are  most  unfortunately  placed. 
You  are  like  Mahomet's  coffin,  hanging  midway 
between  earth  and  heaven.  You  are  not  one  of 
those  lucky  girls  up  there  with  a  nice  villa  and  a 
tennis  ground,  an  ample  allowance,  and  a  mother 
who  could  give  dinner  parties  and  all  the  rest  of 
it,  and  yet  you  are  not  the  ordinary  stuffof  which 
village  schoolmistresses  are  made.  The  young 
men  of  the  tennis  grounds  will  never  want  to  marry 
you,  and  you  will  never  want  to  marry  the  young 
man  who  would  be  willing  to  marry  the  school- 
mistress ;  and  so  you  must  look  on  all  your  life 
and  make  believe  that  the  onlooker  who  sees 
most  of  the  game  has  the  best  time." 

"  And  yet  when  the  young  man  came  along 
who  was  willing  to  marry  the  schoolmistress," 
said  Dick,  "  you  found  yourself  quite  willing  to 
marry  him." 

"  It's  very  wonderful,  Dick,  isn't  it?  Some- 
times," she  went  on,  "I  find  myself  thinking 
about  the  circumstances  of  our  marriage.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  fate  about  it.  Did  it  ever 
strike  you,  Dick  ?  " 

"  Yes,  many  times." 

"  So  strange  that  mother  should  have  insisted 
on  coming  out  here.  Do  you  know,  Dick,  I  can 
tell  you  now  what  I  never  liked  to  tell  you  be- 
fore." 


Disillusionized.  34* 

"  What's  that  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Well,  poor  mother,  just  at  last  you  know  sh 
got  the  most  extraordinary  idea  about  you." 

"  Your  mother  did  ?  " 

"  Yes.  She  fancied  you  had  some  special  rea- 
son for  not  wanting  her  to  see  my  father's  grave." 

"  I  had." 

"What  was  it?" 

"  Well,  I  hardly  know  how  to  put  it.  I  could 
not  see  that  any  good  could  come  of  such  a  pil- 
grimage, and  in  that  rough  place  there  might 
have  come  harm." 

"  I  thought  that  too,  then,"  said  Cynthia 
simply  ;  "  but  sometimes,  Dick,  if  I  happen  to 
be  awake  at  night,  as  I  am  now  and  again,  1  get 
thinking,  and  1  wonder  whether  I  ought  not  to 
look  upon  her  great  wish  as  a  sacred  trust,  and  to 
go  to  Midas  Creek  in  her  place." 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 
CHAPTER  XXXI. 

VALENTINE    CLEGG. 

AT  last  the  day  of  departure  had  come.  Santa 
Clara  no  longer  belonged  to  Dick  and  Cynthia. 
The  purchase  money,  an  enormous  sum,  had  been 
duly  arranged  for,  and  Cynthia  Vincent,  her  boxes 
already  stowed  in  the  wagon  which  would  carry 
them  down  to  Freeman's  Rock,  was  taking  a  last 
farewell  of  the  house  which  had  been  her  husband's 
home  for  seven  years. 

"  Good-bye,  old  house,"  she  cried,  "  good-bye, 
dreary  view,  good-bye  everything  and  everybody. 
Mr.  Frogg,  you  have  been  very  nice  to  me  since 
I  have  been  here.  I  wish  you  were  coming  home 
to  England." 

At  this  the  manager  laughed.  "  No,  Mrs. 
Vincent,  there's  no  room  for  me  in  England,"  he 
replied. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  that.  For  my  part,  I'd 
rather  live  in  a  cottage  in  England  than  in  the 
grandest  palace  that  ever  was  built  in  San  Fran- 
cisco." 

"  But  you  haven't  seen  San  Francisco." 

"  No,  but  I  have  seen  Santa  Clara  and  the 
surrounding  neighborhood,  and  I  had  a  glimpse 


Valentine   Clegg.  343 

of  Freeman's  Rock  as  I  came  through.  Now,  if 
you  come  to  England,  be  sure  you  come  and  see 
me," 

"  Thank  you  a  thousand  times." 

"  Meantime  I  wish  you  all  the  luck  in  the 
world,  but  I  wish  you  weren't  going  to  have  it 
here." 

"  Don't  set  him  against  the  palace,  Cynthia," 
and  Dick. 

"  No,  no.  I  could  have  no  influence  over  Mr. 
Frogg,  not  in  that  way.  He's  a  hard  person  that 
likes  a  barren  land.  And  I'm  going  home  to 
dear  England — to  lovely  Hollingridge,  all  green 
and  cool  and  beautiful.  And,  oh,  I  am  so  happy. 
I  feel  like  a  child  going  home  after  the  longest 
term  that  any  child  ever  stayed  at  a  boarding 
school — an  uncomfortable  boarding  school." 

"  Have  you  been  so  very  miserable  with  us, 
Mrs.  Vincent  ? " 

"  I  haven't  been  miserable  at  all.  How  could 
I  ?  But  all  the  same,  it's  been  an  exile,  and  I'll 
not  pretend  anything  else." 

"  If  you  don't  stop  chattering  and  get  in,"  said 
Dick  Vincent,  "  there'll  be  no  going  to  old  Eng- 
land or  anywhere  else." 

"  I  stand  rebuked,"  cried  Cynthia,  gaily. 
"  Well,  good-bye,  Mr.  Frogg,  good-bye.  Be 
sure  to  come  and  see  us  if  you  ever  find  yourself 
in  the  old  country  again." 


344       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

The  little  woman  to  whom  she  had  given  the 
piano  was  waiting  a  little  way  down  the  dreary 
road  in  order  to  wish  her  a  last  God-speed.  "  I 
shall  miss  you,"  she  said,  rather  wretchedly,  "  in 
spite  of  the  great  pleasure  that  you  have  brought 
into  my  life." 

"Oh,  the  piano?"  cried  Cynthia.  "Think 
of  me  when  you  play  it,  and  keep  a  corner  in 
your  hearts  for  us.  Good  luck  be  with  you. 
Good-bye !  " 

"  There  ! "  she  said  to  Dick,  as  they  rattled 
along,  "  we're  off  at  last.  We  will  never  go  back, 
Dick." 

"  No,"  echoed  Dick,  "  we'll  never  go  back. 
Take  care  of  your  arm,  child ;  take  care  of  your 
arm." 

Oh,  she  was  so  gay  as  they  rattled  along.  In 
her  heart  there  was  one  song  of  thankfulness 
which  kept  rising  to  her  lips  in  snatches — 

"  We're  going  home  !     We're  going  home  !  " 

How  like  and  yet  how  wide  apart  were  the 
thoughts  of  the  husband  and  wife  as  they  jolted 
along  the  uneven  road.  Cynl'iia  was  openly  and 
childishly  glad  at  being  about  to  turn  her  back  on 
California  ;  Dick  was  equally  well  satisfied  to  do 
so,  though  for  a  very  different  reason.  In  truth 
to  him  the  time  they  had  paased  at  Santa  Clara 
had  seemed  interminable ;  every  day  he  had  got 
out  of  his  bed  with  a  feeling  that  before  he  got 


Valentine   Clegg.  345 

into  it  again  some  accident  might  have  revealed 
the  fact  which  he  was  so  anxiously  concealing 
from  his  wife.  Once  clear  of  the  country  and 
settled  at  Hollingridge,  he  knew  that  he  need 
have  no  fear  of  any  such  accident  befalling  him. 
He  was  not  likely  in  that  quiet,  far-off  country 
home  ever  to  meet  again  with  any  one  of  the  per- 
sons who  had  been  witnesses  of  that  terrible  trag- 
edy, the  tragedy  which  still  weighed  upon  his 
mind  with  a  sense  of  unmitigated  horror.  They 
had  got  now  to  within  a  few  hours  of  what  to  him 
meant  safety.  Or,  stay  ;  that  was  not  exactly 
the  term  which  he  used  to  himself— what  to  him 
meant  peace  of  mind  which  was  not  likely  ever  to 
be  broken.  He  could  not  help  thinking,  as  they 
rode  along,  how  wonderfully  everything  had 
worked  together  to  help  him  to  conceal  the  un- 
palatable truth.  How  determined  that  little  wo- 
man had  been  that  she  would  sift  the  whole  affair 
to  the  bottom.  How  suspicious  she  had  been — 
how  determined — how  ruthless  in  her  unquench- 
able desire  to  have  always  absolutely  her  own 
way.  And  her  own  way  had  practically  killed 
her.  Well,  so  far  as  happiness  was  concerned, 
Dick  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  would  not  suf- 
fer in  that  respect  by  the  death  of  his  wife's 
mother.  And  Cynthia,  dear, -tender-hearted  little 
girl  that  she  was,  had  been  smitten  by  a  qualm  of 
conscience.  She  had  taken  into  her  dear  little 


346      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

head  that  perhaps  she  ought,  as  a  duty,  to  go  to 
Midas  Creek  as  a  substitute  for  her  mother. 
Well,  he  he  had  nipped  that  in  the  bud  at  once. 

"  I  could  not  convince  your  mother  that  it  was 
wiser  she  did  not  go  near  the  place  where  your 
father  died,"  he  said  to  her.  "  Don't  you  think, 
dearest,  that  if  your  mother  had  been  intended 
to  go  there  she  would  have  been  spared  to  do  so  ?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,"  was  Cynthia's  re- 
ply ;  "  and,  of  course,  dear  Dick,  if  you  would 
rather  that  I  didn't  go,  I'll  never  give  it  another 
thought  again." 

"  I  would  much  rather  you  did  not  go,"  he 
said.  "  I  never  like  to  think  that  my  greatest 
friend,  whom  I  trusted  and  loved  all  the  seven 
years  that  we  lived  together,  came  by  his  end  in 
such  a  horrible  way.  I  like  to  remember  him  as 
we  were  together  at  Santa  Clara  :  when  he  was  so 
easy,  so  considerate,  so  kindly  to  everybody.  I 
tell  you  candidly,  Cynthia,  that  I  know  exactly 
what  I  should  hear  if  we  went  to  Midas  Creek, 
and  I  shrink  from  hearing  it.  He  is  dead  :  his 
hour  had  come ;  nothing  that  we  can  do  would 
bring  him  back  to  life  again,  so  pray  don't  let  us 
do  anything.  We  must  pass  through  Midas 
Creek,  because  we  get  on  to  the  cars  there — but 
don't  let  us  stop.  I  hate  to  think  of  the  place  as 
asaociated  with  him." 

And  she  had  instantly  fallen  in  with   his  ideas, 


Valentine   Clegg.  347 

declaring  that  she  believed  him  to  be  perfctly 
right,  and  that  for  her  part  she  hated  these  wild, 
out-of-the-way  savage  places,  and  never  wanted  to 
find  herself  in  any  one  of  them.  "It  was  only  an 
idea,  Dick,"  she  said,  "  a  foolish  idea,  but  you 
know  I  have  been  through  a  great  deal  lately,  and 
I  get  ideas  in  my  head  at  times." 

"  Well,  don't  get  any  more  ideas  on  that  sub- 
ject, dearest,"  he  said,  "  it  can  do  no  good.  You 
might  fret  yourself  to  fiddle-strings  feeling  that  if 
you  had  only  persuaded  your  mother  to  be  quiet, 
or  to  do  other  than  she  did,  she  might  still  be 
with  us.  That  would  be  all  very  well  if  we  could 
look  forward  as  we  can  look  backward.  If  I  had 
known  that  your  father  would  get  drinking  again 
the  moment  that  my  influence  was  taken  away 
from  him,  I  would  never  have  left  him  at  all ;  I 
wouldn't  have  come  home." 

"  Oh,  but  you  couldn't  go  through  life  as  his 
jailer." 

"  Well,  to  all  intents  and  purposes  I  was  his 
jailer." 

For  a  moment  she  sat  looking  up  at  him. 
"  Dick,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  like  to  think  about 
my  father.  I  wish  he  had  lived  for  mother's 
sake.  Do  you  think  that  I  will  ever  go  the  same 
way  that  he  did  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  delicious  little  person,  no  ;  cer- 
tainly not.  What  a  ludicrous  idea  !  Put  such  a 


A  Matter  of  Sentiment.          , 

notion  out  of  yout  dear  little  head  this  moment. 
You  mustn't  think  too  much  of  his  having  been 
a  drinker;  he  was  nobody's  enemy  so  much  as 
his  own.  You  must  take  the  circumstances  of 
his  life  into  consideration  ;  his  temptations — his 
careless,  gay,  easy-going,  good-natured  bonhom- 
mie.  He  was  a  dear  good  fellow  all  through,  but 
for  this  one  little  weakness — well,  I  am  afraid  I 
must  say  this  one  great  weakness — and  he  was  a 
good  sort — a  good  friend." 

"  He  was  a  very  bad  husband,"  said  Cynthia, 
half  resentfully. 

"  Well,  yes  ;  he  was  a  bad  husband."  And 
then  a  memory  came  back  to  Dick  of  a  steel  hand 
in  a  velvet  glove,  and  he  knew,  beyond  all  cer- 
tainty of  doubt,  that  had  he  been  the  husband  of 
Cynthia's  mother  he  would  probably  have  acted 
very  much  as  Cynthia's  father  had  done. 

He  thought  over  this  conversation  as  they  rode 
along. 

"  You  look  quite  moody,  Dick,"  said  Cynthia, 
turning  her  radiant  eyes  upon  him. 

"  Moody  ?  I  never  felt  less  moody  in  my 
life,"  he  declared.  "  I  was  thinking,  that  was  all. 
You  know,  child,  a 'man  cannot  put  seven  years 
of  his  life  behind  him  without  a  certain  feeling  of 
sadness — at  least,  I  can't." 

"  But  you  are  putting  them  behind  you  for 
me." 


Valentine   Clegg.  349 

"  I  wasn't  regretting  you,"  he  said.  "  Pray 
don't  get  such  a  thought  as  that  in  your  mind." 

I  need  not  go  into  all  the  details  of  the  long 
and  weary  drive  down  to  Freeman's  Rock.  "  I 
am  so  tired,  Dick,"  said  Cynthia,  as  at  last  they 
came  to  the  first  straggling  huts  of  the  little  town. 
"  I  do  like  civilization,  Dick  ;  this  kind  of  life 
would  not  have  suited  me  at  all.  I  think  I 
should  have  gone  mad  if  I  had  had  to  live  here." 

"  Ah,  well,  you  would  have  got  used  to  it. 
Thank  heaven  you  needn't ;  and  that  you  will 
always  be  able  to  afford  a  carriage  and  pair  and  a 
Pullman  car." 

"  Yes,  the  cars  are  all  right,  but,  oh,  Dick,  I 
don't  like  being  off  the  beaten  track." 

She  clutched  at  his  arm  nervously  as  they  drew 
up  at  the  door  of  the  hotel. 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  frightened  of,"  he  said, 
soothingly.  "  Don't  let  yourself  get  full  of  fan- 
cies. You  are  nervous  and  unstrung ;  you  are 
tired  out.  We'll  get  some  dinner,  such  as  it  is, 
and  we'll  be  off  to  bed  in  good  time.  Remember 
the  coach  starts  very  early  in  the  morning." 

She  was  even  more  nervous  as  they  approached 
Midas  Creek. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  see  ghosts,"  she 
said,  shiveringly,  to  him. 

"  Nonsense  !  nonsense  !  You  will  see  nothing 
to  upset  you,  child.  It  is  a  shade  better  than 


35°      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

Freeman's  Rock,  and  it  isn't  as  if  we  had  to  stop 
there." 

"  We  get  straight  on  to  the  cars,  don't  we  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  child.  We  are  just  in  time.  We 
shall  have  something  like  twenty  minutes  to  spare. 
You  will  get  something  like  a  decent  dinner  on 
the  cars  ;  and  mind,  we  haven't  had  that  since  we 
got  off  them  three  months  ago." 

It  was  very  strange,  but  the  girl  was  possessed 
of  a  curious  shrinking  feeling  that  everybody  in 
Midas  Creek  must  recognize  her  as  the  daughter 
of  the  man  who  had  a  few  months  before  been 
turned  into  the  likeness  of  a  wild  beast.  Her 
nervousness  was  sufficient,  naturally  enough,  to 
give  Dick  courage.  In  soothing  her  fears  he  for- 
got how  intensely  he  had  dreaded  this  momentary 
touch  with  the  town  where  Meredith  had  died. 

It  was  with  a  simultaneous  breath  of  relief  that 
the  husband  and  wife  found  themselves  once  more 
on  the  cars  which  would  carry  them  away  from 
Midas  Creek. 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye !  That  is  the  last  we 
shall  see  of  California,"  said  Cynthia,  waving  her 
hand  towards  the  little  town.  "  Now,  Dick,  you 
and  I  are  going  to  begin  to  live." 

How  she  enjoyed  the  cup  of  tea  which  Dick 
ordered  for  her  immediately  1  How,  after  the  in- 
conveniences of  the  make-shift  life  at  Santa  Clara, 
she  revelled  in  the  completeness  of  the  luxury 


Valentine   Clegg.  351 

which  she  found  as  soon  as  they  were  once  aboard 
the  cars  ! 

"  I  am  going  to  settle  down  and  do  nothing  ; 
to  rest  myself,"  she  said,  when  she  and  Dick  had 
cone  back  to  the  saloon.  "  It  will  take  me  three 

o 

days  to  get  over  the  awful  jolting  of  that  dreadful 
journey  from  Santa  Clara  down  to  Midas  Creek. 
Dick,  I  feel  old  and  haggard." 

"  Well,  you  look  neither  one  nor  the  other," 
he  replied.  "  But  the  more  you  can  rest,  the 
better  for  you.  Then  you  will  be  fit  and  well, 
to  have  a  few  days  with  the  Sergeantsons,  before 
we  go  on  board  the  c  City  of  Boston.'  What  are 
you  going  to  do  now  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  stay  here  quietly  and  read  this 
book.  I  have  got  a  lovely  new  book  from  that 
black  waiter  just  come  up  with  a  trayful  of  them." 

"  And  I,"  said  Dick,  "  if  you  really  don't  mind 
being  left,  would  like  to  go  into  the  smoking-car 
and  have  a  pipe." 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  cried,  "  pray  do  !  You 
must  be  as  tired  as  I  am,  and  as  longing  for  your 
little  luxuries." 

"  I  am  longing  for  a  pipe,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh,  "  so  I  shall  leave  you.  If  you  want  me, 
send  one  of  these  colored  gentlemen  after  me." 

Then  Dick  left  his  wife,  passing  through  the 
I  next  car  and  into  the  smoking  car,  where  he 
'took  a  vacant  seat  about  half-way  between  the 


352      A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

two  doors.  As  he  took  up  his  pipe  and  his 
tobacco  pouch,  a  man  who  was  sitting  on  the 
other  side  of  the  car  put  down  a  newspaper  and 
looked  across  at  him.  For  a  moment  Dick  was 
puzzled.  It  was  a  face  he  knew — yes,  but  he 
could  not  put  a  name  to  it.  Where  had  he  seen 
that  man  ?  Somewhere  ;  but  where  ? 

Then  the  stranger  got  up  and  came  to  the 
chair  next  to  him.  "  I  guess  you've  forgotten 
me,"  he  said.  "  My  name  is  Valentine  Clegg." 


Touch  and  Go.  353 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

TOUCH  AND  GO. 

As  the  words  which  disclosed  his  identity  left 
Valentine  Clegg's  lips,  Dick  suddenly  felt  that 
he  was  undone.  So,  after  all,  chance  and  luck 
had  failed  him.  He  had  gone  right  though  the 
very  midst  of  danger  and  his  luck  had  served 
him;  now,  at  the  last  moment,  he  felt  him- 
self deserted  by  Dame  Fortune.  He  could  not 
expect  to  avoid  a  meeting  between  Cynthia  and 
this  man,  this  man  who  knew  him  for  what  he 
was — the  one  who  had  taken  her  father's  life. 
In  the  flurry  of  the  moment  he  quite  forgot  that 
Valentine  Clegg  had  from  first  to  last  sympathized 
with  him  before  everything.  He  forgot  every- 
thing except  that  his  wife  was  on  board  the 
train,  and  that  he  must  make  one  last  effort  to 
keep  the  truth  from  her.  He  felt  now,  with  a 
wild  gush  of  poignant  regret,  that  he  had  taken 
the  wrong  course  with  her.  He  felt  that  it 
would  have  been  wiser  and  the  better  plan  to 
have  openly,  from  the  first  moment,  disclosed  the 
truth  that  it  was  a  shot  from  his  revolver  which 
had  ended  Roger  Meredith's  life.  It  would  have 
been  easy  enough  to  prove,  had  proof  been  neces- 
23 


354     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

sary,  that  he  had  had  little  or  no  choice  in  the 
matter ;  but  now  nothing  could  take  away,  if  the 
facts  ever  came  to  Cynthia's  knowledge,  the  one 
damning  mistake  of  his  having  deceived  her. 
She  would  have  forgotten  the  accident ;  she 
would  never  forgive  the  concealment.  He  had 
meant  it  kindly  enough  at  the  first.  He  had 
not  liked  to  say  to  the  little  widow,  with  her 
eyes  full  of  tears,  that  his  had  been  the  hand  to 
bring  her  husband's  ignoble  career  to  an  end. 
He  had  done  it  to  spare  her  feelings  entirely. 
He  recalled  bitterly,  as  Valentine  Clegg  talked  on 
and  he  aimlessly  gave  answers  at  random,  how 
little  she,  that  soft-eyed,  velvet-gloved  woman, 
had  ever  considered  his  wishes,  his  likes,  his 
desires.  He  might  have  spared  himself  the 
trouble  now — now  everything  was  on  the  verge 
of  disclosure.  The  whole  fabric  of  his  happiness 
might,  during  the  next  hour,  fall  about  his  ears 
like  a  pack  of  cards. 

He  quickly  determined  that  he  would  leave  the 
cars  at  the  next  stopping-place,  though  he  could 
not  imagine  what  excuse  he  should  make  to  Cyn- 
thia herself  for  doing  so,  more  especially  as  their 
luggage  was  expressed  right  through  to  New 
York.  Still,  he  could  not  run  the  risk  of  her 
meeting  with  Valentine  Clegg. 

"  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Clegg,  "  that  the  very  sight 
of  me  has  knocked  you  over.  You  needn't  let 


Touch   and   Go.  355 

it  do  that,  my  dear  fellow.  I  never  sympathized 
with  anybody  more  in  my  life  than  I  did  with 
you.  What  happened  was  absolutely  unavoid- 
able ;  and  for  the  matter  of  that,  Meredith  was 
such  an  out-and-out  blackguard,  that  you  really 
did  a  service  to  the  entire  world  by  ridding  it  of 
him.  I  told  you  so  at  the  time." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  had  a  bad  opinion  of 
Meredith." 

"  I  had  that  same,"  said  the  stranger  in  an 
emphatic  tone.  "  I  knew  Meredith  inside  out. 
I  had  known  him  for  years  and  years  and  years. 
He  was  a  wrong  'un ;  a  bad  hat.  The  world's 
no  poorer  for  his  demise." 

"No,"  said  Dick,  "you  are  wrong  there. 
There  was  good  in  him,  and  plenty  of  it;  It  was 
only  that  besetting  curse  of  drink  that  made  him 
what  he  sometimes  was." 

Valentine  Clegg  looked  up  at  Dick  in  genuine 
amazement.  "  Say,"  said  he,  "  you  are  not  quali- 
fying for  a  finger-post,  are  you  ? " 

Dick  shook  his  head.  "No,  far  from  it — very 
far  from  it.  I  never  had  any  qualification  for 
preaching  to  others  ;  I  have  less  than  ever  now." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  chap,  you  take  a  wrong  view  of 
it  altogether.  I  tell  you  you  didn't  know  the  fel- 
low. You'd  think  no  more  about  it,  if  you  knew 
him  as  I  did,  than  a  butcher  thinks  when  he  fells 
an  ox,  or  a  policeman  when  he  kills  a  mad  dog." 


356      A   Matter   of  Sentiment. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Dick,  "  I  did  know 
him  ;  I'd  known  him  intimately  for  years.  Be- 
lieve me  there  was  a  lot  of  good  in  poor  old 
Meredith.  I  have  never  quite  got  over  it ;  I 
shall  never  be  quite  the  same  man  again." 

"  Well,  I  think  you  take  a  wrong  view  of  it," 
said  Valentine  Clegg.  "  Of  course,  since  you  say 
there  was  good  in  the  chap,  I  won't  dispute  it ; 
I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  but  I  didn't  know  it — that's 
all.  I  don't  think  you  will  find  many  men 
ready  to  endorse  your  opinion.  But  still  that's 
neither  here  nor  there.  The  thing  was  done,  it 
was  an  accident — at  least,  it  takes  about  the  same 
rank  as  an  accident — and  I  don't  like  to  see  you, 
a  fine  young  fellow  like  you,  brooding  over  what 
could  not  possibly  be  helped.  Put  it  out  of  your 
mind,  my  dear  fellow  ;  leave  it  behind  you ;  don't 
think  about  it  again.  After  all,  what's  done  can 
never  be  undone  in  this  world — not  where  it  has 
to  do  with  a  six-shooter." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Dick.  "  I  can 
never  sufficiently  express  to  you  how  entirely 
grateful  I  was  for  the  advice  you  gave  me  when 
we  met  before.  I  have  wished  more  than  once 
that  I  had  stayed  and  faced  it  out ;  but  perhaps 
you  were  right,  and  it  was  the  easiest  way  out  of 
the  difficulty." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Valentine  Clegg,  "  per- 
fectly certain  of  it ;  and  the  jury  showed  their  ap- 


Touch   and   Go.  357 

preciation  of  my  idea  by  the  verdict  they  brought 
in.  Well,  I  saw  that  meeting  me  knocked  you 
over,  but  don't  let  me  disturb  you.  I  am  get- 
ting off  the  cars  in  a  couple  of  hours  from  now  ; 
I  only  go  as  far  as  Meville." 

The  stranger  then  skilfully  turned  the  subject 
away  from  that  of  Roger  Meredith's  death,  and 
talked  on  in  the  most  friendly  way  on  quite  dif- 
ferent matters.  And  as  they  talked,  Dick  kept 
turning  over  in  his  mind  how  he  could  avoid  a 
meeting  with  Cynthia,  or  how  he  could  convey  to 
him  that  Cynthia  was  in  total  ignorance  of  that 
particular  episode  in  her  husband's  life. 

At  last  when  they  were  summoned  to  dinner, 
and  Valentine  Clegg  rose,  as  if  it  were  the  most 
natural  thing  that  they  should  dine  together,  he 
had  no  choice  but  to  inform  him  that  he  was  not 
traveling  alone. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  I  have  got  my  wife 
with  me." 

"  So  ?     Been  married  long  ?  " 

"  No,  only  a  few  months — well,  almost  less 
than  a  few  months." 

"  Really  ?  I  hope  you  will  present  me  to 
Madame." 

"  1  shall  be  delighted  to.  There's  just  one 
thing " 

"  1  suppose  she  knows  nothing  ?  "  interposed 
Mr.  Clegg. 


3S8      A   Matter   of  Sentiment. 

"  Not  a  word,"  said  Dick,  "  not  a  word.  I 
wouldn't  have  her  know  it  for  anything." 

"  That's  natural  enough — presupposing  that 
she's  an  Englishwoman.  One  of  our  women, 
you  know,  wouldn't  mind." 

"  I  don't  know.  She  is  an  Englishwoman," 
said  Dick. 

"  My  dear  sir,  I'll  be  as  mum  as  a  cherub 
carved  in  marble  on  a  tombstone." 

He  followed  Dick  into  the  dining-car,  where 
Cynthia,  being  healthily  hungry,  had  already 
taken  her  place  at  the  table  assigned  to  them. 
Dick  felt  as  he  walked  between  the  rows  of  little 
tables,  that  it  was  a  case  of  now  or  never,  touch 
and  go. 

He  knew  that  hesitation  would  be  fatal,  so  put- 
ting the  best  face  possible  upon  his  nervousness, 
he  walked  straight  up  to  Cynthia. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  "  I  have  met  an  old  friend 
of  mine — Mr.  Valentine  Clegg.  We  have  been 
having  a  great  time  together.  I  hope  you 
haven't  been  lonely." 

"  Dear  Dick,  I  have  been  asleep,*'  she  re- 
plied. "  I  feel  ten  thousand  times  better  for  it. 
Mr.  Clegg,  I  am  most  pleased  to  meet  any  old 
friend  of  my  husband's.  How  do  you  do  ? " 

Valentine  Clegg  took  Cynthia's  hand.  "  Mrs. 
Martin,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "  I  am  most  pleased  to 
make  your  acquaintance." 


Touch   and   Go.  359 

"  My  name  isn't  Martin,"  said  Cynthia,  "  it's 
Vincent.  My  husband's  name  is  Vincent." 

For  a  moment  Valentine  Clegg's  jaw  dropped, 
and  Dick  felt  a  ringing  in  his  ears  that  was  almost 
insupportable.  The  sharpness  of  the  American, 
however,  saved  the  situation. 

"  Did  I  say  c  Martin '  ?  God  bless  my  soul  ! 
What  tricks  one's  tongue  serves  one  !  Of  course 
your  name  is  Vincent.  But  I  am  getting  old,  my 
dear  lady — that's  the  truth.  I  remember  when  I 
was  a  boy  my  father  used  to  call  '  Tom-Dick- 
Harry-John-Jack  !  "  He  seldom  got  to  the  right 
name  until  we  supplied  it  ourselves." 

"  Ah,  yes.  And  traveling  does  tire  you,  doesn't 
it  ?  I  am  worn  out,"  said  Cynthia.  "  Well,  are 
you  going  to  join  us  at  this  table  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  allow  me,  ma'am,  I  shall  be  ex- 
tremely flattered  and  honored." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that.  We  shall  be  very  glad 
of  your  company,  shan't  we,  Dick  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  glad,"  said  Dick. 

A  grim  thought  crossed  his  mind  of  an  old  say- 
ing that  had  long  obtained  in  the  Vincent  family. 
It  was  to  the  effect  that  he  might  very  comfort- 
ably put  any  gladness  he  felt  in  his  eye  and  be 
none  the  worse  for  it. 

Cynthia  was  still  very  gay  at  the  prospect  of 
going  home,  and  exerted  herself  to  the  utmost  to 
be  pleasant  and  charming  to  this  friend  of  her 


360       A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

husband's.  She  talked  gaily  and  naturally  of  her 
joy  in  seeing  the  last  of  California,  and  the  intense 
happiness  she  felt  at  going  home  to  her  own 
country. 

"  It's  not  because  we're  insular,"  she  said,  "  1 
am  not  at  all  an  insular  person,  but  I  do  like 
comfort.  The  hideous  discomfort  of  life  out  in 
new  countries  is  too  much  for  me.  It's  like  get- 
ting up  too  early  in  the  morning,  before  the  world 
is  aired.  I  like  my  world  aired  for  me  by  people 
having  lived  in  it  for  a  few  hundreds  of  years." 

Thus  she  rattled  on,  and  Valentine  Clegg, 
always,  though  he  was  a  plain  man  himself,  at- 
tacted  by  a  pretty  woman,  fell  in  with  her  humor 
and  talked  his  hardest.  Nor  was  Dick  himself 
the  least  silent  of  the  three.  In  truth  he  was  so 
afraid  that  she  would  in  some  way  give  him  away, 
that  he,  too,  talked  nineteen  to  the  dozen,  and 
theirs  was  the  merriest  table  in  the  whole  car. 

At  last,  when  the  meal  had  nearly  come  to  a 
conclusion,  Cynthia  happened  to  drop  her  hand- 
kerchief. It  was  a  filmy  little  square  of  finest  silk 
muslin,  profusely  embroidered  in  black,  with  an 
elaborate  monogram  in  one  corner.  It  happened 
that  Valentine  Clegg  was  the  first  to  perceive  the 
loss,  and  he  stopped  and  picked  it  up  with  a  gal- 
lant air,  which  showed  that  Cynthia  had  impressed 
him  very  favorably.  Cynthia  took  the  handker- 
chief with  a  smile  and  a  word  of  thanks,  laying 


Touch  and  Go.  361 

it  on  the  corner  of  the  table  between.  It  hap- 
pened thus  that  the  corner  which  bore  the  mono- 
gram lay  uppermost,  and  presently  Mr.  Clegg 
chanced  to  notice  it. 

'  How  curious  !  "  he  said,  speaking  with  invol- 
untary surprise,  "  that  1  should  make  the  mistake 
of  calling  you  Mrs.  Martin,  and  you  have  got  a 
monogram  which  is  marked  '  C.  M.' — Cynthia 
Martin." 

"  Well,  it  is  funny,"  said  Cynthia ;  "  it  looks 
rather  fishy,  to  tell  the  truth,  but  our  name  is 
Vincent.  Now  you  are  wondering  what  the  '  C. 
M.'  stands  for.  It  stands  for  Cynthia  Meredith 
— which  was  my  maiden  name. 

"  Cynthia  Meredith  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Clegg. 
"  Was  your  name  Meredith  ?  " 

At  this  point  of  the  conversation  Dick  gave 
himself  up  for  lost.  He  never  looked  at  Cyn- 
thia nor  Valentine  Clegg ;  he  went  on  arranging 
bits  of  cheese  and  butter  on  a  biscuit  with  an  in- 
tensity which  such  an  occupation  did  not  war- 
rant. 

"  Yes,  my  name  was  Meredith,"  said  she. 

Valentine  Clegg  looked  at  Dick,  then  back  at 
Cynthia.  "  And  were  you  by  any  chance  the 
daughter  of  Roger  Meredith  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was  Roger  Meredith's  only  child." 

"  The  man  who  was  killed  at  Midas  Creek?" 

"  Yes,"  speaking  sadly,  "  the  same." 


3<32      A   Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  But  how  came  he  to  have  a  daughter  like 
you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  was  his  daughter,  but  he 
had  been  out  here  for  fifteen  years.  I  hadn't 
seen  him  since  I  was  three  years  old." 

"  I  see.  Well,  Mrs.  Vincent,"  glancing  at  his 
watch,  "  I  shall  be  getting  off  the  cars  in  a  few 
minutes  now,  but  I  must  tell  you  something  be- 
fore I  say  good-bye  to  you.  I  was  there  when 
Meredith  was  killed." 

"  You  ?  "  She  looked  at  him  with  all  her  soul 
in  her  gray  eyes.  Dick's  eyes  were  riveted  on 
her  face. 

"  I  don't  want  to  say  a  word  against  your 
father,  even  though  you  hadn't  seen  him  for  fif- 
teen years,"  said  Valentine  Clegg,  "  but  you  know 
he  had  a  failing  ;  it  is  a  failing  a  good  many  men 
have  out  in  the  wilder  parts  of  the  world." 

"  I  know,"  said  Cynthia,  "  I  know." 

"  Well,  it  was  very  sad — when  a  good  man  goes 
wrong,  it  is  always  very  sad — but  I  was  there, 
Mrs.  Vincent,  and  I  saw  the  whole  thing  from 
beginning  to  end.  I  knew  Meredith  years  before. 
It  was  a  pity  he  came  by  his  end  like  that,  but 
practically  the  whole  affair  was  an  accident.  The 
other  fellow  had  no  choice  ;  it  was  one  life  or  the 
other.  If  ever  you  hear  to  the  contrary,  you  have 
my  word  for  it  that  the  whole  thing  was  as  much 
an  accident  as  if  Meredith  had  dropped  a  lighted 


Touch  and   Go.  3^3 

match  into  a  box  of  dynamite.  There — the  cars 
are  slowing  down,  so  I  will  bid  you  good-bye.  I 
am  glad  to  have  met  you,  very  glad ;  more  so 
than  you'll  ever  know.  We  shall  probably  never 
meet  again,  but  whatever  you  hear  in  the  time  to 
come,  remember  that  you  have  my  word  for  it 
that  your  father's  death  was  neither  more  nor  less 
than  an  accident.  So,  good-bye!  God  bless  you 
both !  " 

He  took  her  hand,  holding  it  fast  in  his  own 
for  a  minute  or  so,  then  he  turned  round  to  Dick. 
"  Good-bye,  old  fellow,"  he  said.  "  You  know 
where  to  write  to  if  I  can  ever  do  anything  to 
serve  you.  Good-bye  !  God  bless  you  !  I  am 
glad  to  have  seen  you,  and  seen  you  together." 

"  I'll  come  and  see  you  off  the  cars,"  said  Dick. 

When  he  returned  the  cars  were  once  more  in 
motion.  Cynthia  was  sitting  precisely  where  he 
had  left  her. 

"  Dick,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  conviction  and 
with  a  deadly  earnestness  that  completely  startled 
him,  "  I  am  not  sentimental,  I  don't  look  at 
things  as  my  mother  did,  but  that  was  the  man 
who  shot  my  father  !  " 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Dick. 

"  Dick,  I  am  certain  of  it ;  I  am  convinced 
of  it." 

"  You  are  wrong,  my  child — you  are  wrong ;  I 
assure  you  you  arc  wrong." 


364     A  Matter  of  Sentiment. 

"  No,  Dick,  I  am  not  wrong.  That  was  the 
man  who  shot  my  father." 

"  Well,  if  he  did,"  said  Dick,  suddenly  feeling  a 
deadly  sickness  creeping  over  him, "  the  whole  affair 
was,  as  he  put  it  himself,  practically  an  accident." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  that ;  I  am  not  saying  any- 
thing about  that;  but  Dick,  I  have  sat  at  meat 
with  him — I  have  laughed  and  joked  with  him — 
and  after  all,  one's  father  is  one's  father." 

For  a  moment  Dick  Vincent  did  not  speak. 
"  Dearest,"  he  said,  as  his  face  was  pale  and  his 
voice  shook  a  little  in  spite  of  himself,  "  I  knew 
your  father  much  better  than  either  his  wife  or 
you.  Believe  me,  if  he  could  speak  to  you  now 
he  would  tell  you  to  put  such  an  idea  out  of  your 
head  altogether.  There  are  times  in  one's  life — 
in  every  one's  life — when  the  most  grave  and  im- 
portant acts  must  be  decided  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment.  The  man  who  shot  your  father  in  self- 
defence  is,  I  feel  certain,  carrying  with  him  a 
burden  which  will  only  fall  from  him  with  the 
grave.  Nobody  blamed  him." 

"  He  might  have  spoken  out,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  No,  he  was  advised  at  the  time  that  the  eas- 
iest way  would  be  to  keep  silence.  When  once  a 
man  has  put  his  hand  to  the  plough,  there  can  be 
no  turning  back  !  " 

THE  END. 


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"Never  has  Mrs.  Ewlng  published  a  more  charming  volume,  and  that 
Is  saying  a  very  great  deal.  From  the  first  to  the  last  the  book  over- 
flows with  the  strange  knowledge  of  child-nature  which  so  rarely  sur- 
vives childhood:  and  moreover,  with  inexhaustible  quiet  humor,  which 
Is  never  anything  but  innocent  aud  well-bred,  never  priggish,  and  never 
clumsy. ' ' — Academy. 

A  Sweet  Girl  Graduate.    By  L.  T.  MEADE.     12mo,  cloth, 

illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  this  popular  author's  best.  The  characters  are  well  Imagined 
and  drawn.  The  story  moves  with  plenty  of  spirit  and  the  Interest  does 
not  flag  until  the  end  too  quickly  comes." — Providence  Journal. 

FT  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUST,  $3-68  Duaae  Street.  Now  York. 


2       A.  L.  SUET'S  BOOKS  FOE  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 
BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Six    to    Sixteen:    A   Story  for  Girls.    By  JULIANA 

HORATIA  EWING.    ISmo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"There  is  no  doubt  as  to  the  good  quality  and  attractiveness  of  'Six  to 
Sixteen. '     The  book  is  one  which  would  enrich  any  girl's  book  shelf."— 
St.  James'  Gazette. 

The  Palace  Beautiful:    A  Story  for  Girls.    By  L.  T. 

MSADE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"A  bright  and  interesting  story.  The  many  admirers  of  Mrs.  L.  T. 
Meade  in  this  country  will  be  delighted  with  the  'Palace  Beautiful'  for 
more  reasons  than  one.  It  is  a  charming  book  for  girls." — New  York 
Recorder. 

A  World  of  Girls:    The  Story  of  a  School.    By  L.  T. 

MEADE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  those  wholesome  stories  which  it  does  one  good  to  read.  It 
will  afford  pure  delight  to  numerous  readers.  This  book  should  bo  on 
every  girl's  book  shelf." — Boston  Home  Journal. 

The  Lady  of  the  Forest:    A  Story  for  Girls.    By  L.  T. 

MEADE.    ISmo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"This  story  is  written  in  the  author's  well-known,  fresh  and  easy  style. 
All  girls  fond  of  reading  will  be  charmed  by  this  well-written  story.  It 
is  told  with  the  author's  customary  grace  and  spirit." — Boston  Times. 

At  the  Back  of  the  North  Wind.    By  GEORGE  MAO- 
DONALD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"A  very  pretty  story,  with  much  of  the  freshness  and  vigor  of  Mr.  Mac- 
donald's  earlier  work.  .  .  .  It  is  a  sweet,  earnest,  and  wholesome  fairy 
atory,  and  the  quaint  native  humor  is  delightful.  A  most  delightful  vol- 
ume for  young  readers." — Philadelphia  Times. 

The  Water  Babies:    A  Fairy  Tale  for  a   Land  Baby. 

By  CHARLES  KINGSLET.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  strength  of  his  work,  as  well  as  its  peculiar  charms,  consist  in 
his  description  of  the  experiences  of  a  youth  with  life  under  water  in  the 
luxuriant  wealth  of  which  he  revels  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  poetical  na- 
ture."— New  York  Tribune. 

Our  Bessie.    By  EOSA  N.  CAKEY.    12mo,  cloth,  illus- 

strated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  the  most  entertaining  stories  of  the  season,  full  of  vigorous 
action,  and  strong  in  character-painting.  Elder  girls  will  be  charmed  with 
it,  and  adults  may  read  its  pages  with  profit." — The  Teachers'  Aid. 

Wild  Kitty.     A  Story  of  Middleton  School.     By  L.  T. 

MEADE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Kitty  Is  a  true  heroine — warm-hearted,  self-sacrificing,  and,  as  all 
good  women  nowadays  are,  largely  touched  with  the  enthusiasm  of  human- 
ity. One  of  the  most  attractive  gift  books  of  the  season." — The  Academy. 

A  Young   Mutineer.     A   Story  for  Girls.    By   L.   T. 

MEADE.    ISmo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  Mrs.  Meade's  charming  books  for  girls,  narrated  in  that  simple 
and  picturesque  style  whicb  marks  the  authoress  as  one  of  the  first  among 
writers  for  young  people."— The  Spectator. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A."  L.  BURT,  (2-68  Duano  Street,  New  York. 


A.  t.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 

BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Sue  and  I.    By  MRS.  O'REILLY.    12mo,  doth,  ilhis- 

trated,  price  75  cents. 

"A  thoroughly  delightful  book,  full  of  sound  wisdom  as  well  as  fon."— 

Athenaeum. 

The  Princess  and  the   Goblin.    A  Fairy  Story.    By 

GEORGE  MACDONALD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"if  a  child  once  begins  this  book,  It  will  get  so  deeply  Interested  In 
It  that  when  bedtime  comes  it  will  altogether  forget  the  moral,  and  will 
weary  its  parents  with  importunities  for  just  a  few  minutes  more  to  sea 
how  everything  ends." — Saturday  Review. 

Pythia's    Pupils:    A    Story    of    a    School.    By  EVA 

HAUTNKR.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  §1.00. 

"This  story  of  the  doings  of  several  bright  school  girls  la  sure  to  interest 
girl  readers.  Among  many  good  stories  for  girla  this  is  undoubtedly  one 
of  the  very  best.  ".—Teachers'  Aid. 

A  Story  of  a  Short  Life.    By  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  book  is  one  we  can  heartily  recommend,  for  it  is  not  only  bright 
and  interesting,  but  also  pure  and  healthy  in  tone  and  teaching."—. 
Courier. 

The  Sleepy  King.    A  Fairy  Tale.    By  AUBREY  HOP- 
WOOD  AMD  SEYMOUR  HICKS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"Wonderful  as  the  adventures  of  Bluebell  a.-e,  It  must  be  admitted  thai 

they    are    very    naturally    worked    out    aud    very    plausibly    presented. 

Altogether  this  is  an  excellent  story  for  gh-ls." — Saturday  Review. 

Two   Little   Waifs.    By   MRS.  MOLESWORTH.    12mo, 

doth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Mrs.  Molesworth's  delightful  story  of  'Two  Little  Waifs'  will  chant 
all  the  small  people  who  find  it  in  their  stockings.  It  relates  the  ad. 
ventures  of  two  lovable  English  children  lost  in  Paris,  and  is  Just  wonder, 
ful  enough  to  pleasantly  wring  the  youthful  heart." — New  York  Tribune, 

Adventures  in  Toyland.   By  EDITH  KING  HALL.   12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"The  author  is  such  a  bright,  cheery  writer,  that  her  stories  ar» 
always  acceptable  to  all  who  are  not  confirmed  cynics,  and  her  record  ot 
the  adventures  is  as  entertaining  and  enjoyable  as  we  might  expect."—. 
Boston  Courier. 

Adventures  in  Wallypug  Land.    By  G.  E.  FARROW. 

18mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"These  adventures  are  simply  Inimitable,  and  will  delight  boys  and  girls 
of  mature  age,  as  well  as  their  juniors.  No  happier  combination  ot 
author  and  artist  than  this  volume  presents  could  be  found  to  furnish 
healthy  amusement  to  the  young  folks.  The  book  is  an  artistic  one  in 
every  sense." — Toronto  Mail. 

Pussbudget's  Folks.    A   Story  for  Young  Girls.    By 

ANNA  F.  BURNHAM.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Mrs.  Burnhain  has  a  rare  gift  for  composing  stories  for  children.  With 
a  light,  yet  forcible  touch,  she  paints  sweet  and  artless,  yet  natural  and 
strong,  characters. ' ' — Congregationalist. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUBT,  52-68  Duane 


I      £.  L.  HURT'S  BOOKS  FOE  YOUNG  PBOPLH. 
BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Mixed  Pickles.    A  Story  for  Girls.    By  MBS.  E.  M. 

FIELD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"It  Is,  In  its  way,  a  little  classic,  of  which  the  real  beauty  and  pathos 
can  hardly  be  appreciated  by  young  people.  It  Is  not  too  much  to  say 
of  the  story  that  It  Is  perfect  of  its  kind." — Good  Literature. 

Miss  Mouse  and  Her  Boys.    A  Story  for  Girls.    By 

MRS.  MOLESWORTH.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"Mrs.  Molesworth's  books  are  cheery,  wholesome,  and  particularly  well 
adapted  to  refined  life.    It  is  safe  to  add  that  she  is  the  best  English  prora 
writer  for  children.    A  new   volume  from  Mrs.   Molesworth  is  always  a 
treat." — The  Beacon. 

Qilly  Flower.    A  Story  for  Girls.    By  the  author  of 

"  Miss  Toosey's  Mission."  12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"Jill  is  a  little  guardian  angel  to  three  lively  brothers  who  tease  and 
play  with  her.  .  .  .  Her  unconscious  gocdness  brings  right  thoughts 
and  resolves  to  several  persons  who  come  into  contact  with  her.  There  is 
no  goodiness  in  this  tale,  but  its  Influence  is  of  the  best  kind." — Literary 
World. 

The  Chaplet  of  Pearls ;  or,  The  White  and  Black  Kibau- 

mont.    By  CHARLOTTE  M.  YONGK.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Full  of  spirit  and  life,  so  well  sustained  throughout  that  grown-nn 
readers  may  enjoy  it  as  much  as  children.  It  is  one  of  the  best  bocks  of 
the  season." — Guardian. 

Naughty  Miss  Bunny:    Her  Tricks  and  Troubles.    By 

CLARA  MCLHOLLAND.    I2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"The  naughty  child  Is  positively  delightful.     Papas  should  not  omit  the 
book  from  their  list  of  juvenile  presents." — Land  and  Watjr. 

Meg's   Friend.     By   ALICE    CORKRAN.    12mo,   cloth, 

illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  Miss  Corkran's  charming  books  for  girls,  narrated  In  that  simple 
and  picturesque  style  which  marks  the  authoress  as  one  of  the  first  among 
writers  for  young  people." — The  Spectator. 

Averil.    By  EOSA  N.  CAREY.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated, 

price  $1.00. 

"A  charming  story  for  young  folks.  Averil  Is  a  delightful  creature — • 
piquant,  tender,  and  true — and  her  varying  fortunes  are  perfectly  rc.al- 
istic." — World. 

Aunt  Diana.    By  ROSA  N".  CAREY.     12mo,  cloth,  illus- 
trated, price  $1.00. 

"An  excellent  story,  the  Interest  being  sustained  from  first  to  last. 
This  is,  both  in  its  intention  and  the  way  the  story  is  told,  one  of  tbe 
best  books  of  its  kind  which  has  come  before  us  this  year." — Saturday 
Review. 

little  Sunshine's  Holiday:     A  Picture  from  Life.     By 

Miss  MOLOCK.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"This  is  a  pretty  narrative  of  child  life,  describjng  tbe  simple  doings 
and  sayings  of  a  very  charming  and   rather  precocious  child.     This  is  a 
delightful  book  for  young  people." — Gazette. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  th* 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUBT,  63-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


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